Her young head is drooping, her eyes are bent low, Her hands meekly crossed on her bosom of snow, And, veiling her figure, her shining hair flows, While Herod, flushed high with the revel, arose. Outspake the rash monarch,—“Now, maiden, impart, Ere thou leave us, the loftiest hope of thy heart! By the God of my fathers! what e’er it may be,— To the half of my kingdom,—’tis granted to thee!” The girl, half-bewildered, uplifted her eyes, Dilated with timid delight and surprise, And a swift, glowing smile o’er her happy face stole, As if some sunny wish had just woke in her soul. Will she tell it? Ah, no! She has caught the wild gleam Of a soldier’s dark eye, and she starts from her dream; Falters forth her sweet gratitude,—veils her fair frame,— And glides from the presence, all glowing with shame. PART II. Of costly cedar, rarely carved, the royal chambers ceiling, The columned walls, of marble rich, its brightest hues revealing; Around the room a starry smile the lamp of crystal shed, But warmest lay its lustre on a noble lady’s head; Her dark hair, bound with burning gems, whose fitful lightning glow, Is tame beside the wild, black eyes that proudly flash below: The Jewish rose and olive blend their beauty in her face; She bears her in her high estate with an imperial grace; All gorgeous glows with orient gold the broidery of her vest; With precious stones its purple fold is clasped upon her breast; She gazes from her lattice forth. What sees the lady there? A strange, wild beauty crowns the scene,—but she has other care! Far off fair Moab’s emerald slopes, and Jordan’s lovely vale; And nearer,—heights where fleetest foot of wild gazelle would fail; While crowning every verdant ridge, like drifts of moonlit snow, Rich palaces and temples rise, around, above, below, Gleaming thro’ groves of terebinth, of palm, and sycamore, Where the swift torrents dashing free, their mountain music pour; And arched o’er all, the Eastern heaven lights up with glory rare The landscape’s wild magnificence;—but she has other care! Why flings she thus, with gesture fierce, her silent lute aside? Some deep emotion chafes her soul with more than wonted pride; But, hark! a sound has reached her heart, inaudible elsewhere, And hushed, to melting tenderness, the storm of passion there! The far-off fall of fairy feet, that fly in eager glee, A voice, that warbles wildly sweet, some Jewish melody! She comes! her own Salomé comes! her pure and blooming child! She comes, and anger yields to love, and sorrow is beguiled: Her singing bird! low nestling now upon the parent breast, She murmurs of the monarch’s vow with girlish laugh and jest:—