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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
III.
With pallid cheek, dishevell'd hair,And wildly gleaming eyes,
Once more before the banqueters,
A fearful phantom flies!
Once more at Herod's feet it falls,
And cold with nameless dread
The wondering monarch bends to hear.
A voice, as from the dead,
From those pale lips, shrieks madly forth,—
“Thy promise, king, I claim,
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Not mine, not mine the blame!
Quick, quick recall that reckless vow,
Or strike thy dagger here,
Ere yet this voice demands a gift
That chills my soul with fear!
Heaven's curse upon the fatal grace
That idly charm'd thine eyes!
Oh! better had I ne'er been born
Than he the sacrifice!
The word I speak will blanch thy cheek,
If human heart be thine,
It was a fiend in human form
That murmur'd it to mine.
To die for me! a thoughtless child!
For me must blood be shed!
Bend low,—lest angels hear me ask!—
Oh, God!—the Baptist's head!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |