University of Virginia Library

Lo, mother! it is here—thou hast thy will:
My work is done, my heart is stained with blood,
My hands are full of it; the sky is red;
From sea to sea the land is red to me;
The sun is blood.

Mother, I danced for Herod.
I hung a shining garment on these limbs,
I bound my heavy hair with scarlet flowers,
And on my ancles tied the silver bells
That tinkled to my shame. Oh, curséd robes!
Oh, curséd head! I would its crown were heaped
With dust and ashes; trodden under foot,
The scorn of men. Yea, I would have the sea
Lash all its raging waves above my brow,
To hide me from myself.

Listen, Herodias!
I pleased thy husband's brother, and he swore
I should have what I would, for such a show
No guerdon were too great. I heard thy words
Go hissing through my brain: I saw thine eyes,
As when I left thee, gleam with lurid fire—
“Revenge!” I cried, “Give me the Baptist's head!”
There went a cloud across my uncle's brow,
He paused, and some sweet pity in his heart
Pleaded for John; but I—I forced him on;
I think the very devil of the Jews
Spake for me, since I know not what I said.
Still he grew sad; and then the guests began
To press his oath upon him, so at last
He sent his Lybian slave to bring that head,
And, passing from the chamber, left me there
To wait; not long, they brought it very soon.
Look there! is it enough? have I done well?
Oh, take it! take it! else those pallid lips
Will speak my soul's damnation; send it hence
Before those glassy eyes look through my heart
With fearful accusation.

Ah! it shivers!
It surely moves—mother, do dead men live?
—A phantom of my brain; am I then crazed?
I am, to call thee by the tender name
And loving sound of “mother.” I was crazed
To do thy bidding; and when death itself
Stares in my face with close unwinking eyes,
You tell me, in a quiet voice, to sleep!
Why, should you tie me to a bed of down,
Or lay these weary limbs along the turf
Of cool Libanus, where a thousand springs
Went dropping by my pillow, I should wake.
I never more shall sleep—not with the dead,
For I shall dream of judgment in my grave.
But, Hark, Herodias! thou didst plan the murder;
There is a reckoning somewhere kept for thee.
For this, thy sleep shall be disturbed with groans;
For this, thy waking shall be cold with fear;
For this, the voiceless spangles of the night
Shall look upon thee with the Baptist's eyes;
His deathful smile shall flicker in the fire;
His rigid hand shall draw the curtain back,
At midnight, from thy couch; the very winds
Shall take his voice to bid thee think of him.
And when thou liest at the festal board,
The wine that fills thy cup shall turn to blood;
The cooling snow from virgin Caucasus
Shall burn with crimson. Yea, the face thou lovest,
The face of Herod, shall be turned to his,
And with the livid pallor of the grave,
Stare from his throne.

Alas! my life is dead.
My days are withered. Had I tears to spare,
They were for thee, Herodias; but mine eyes
Are dry as desert sands. Go while thou canst.
Exult in thy revenge; but dread thy doom.