“Now choose me a gift and well! There are so many joys I covet! Shall I ask for a young gazelle? ’Twould be more than the world to me; Fleet and wild as the wind, Oh! how I would cherish and love it! With flowers its neck I’d bind, And joy in its graceful glee. “Shall I ask for a gem of light, To braid in my flowing ringlets? Like a star thro’ the veil of night, Would glisten its glorious hue; Or a radiant bird, to close Its beautiful, waving winglets On my bosom in soft repose, And share my love with you!” She paused,—bewildered, terror-struck; for, in her mother’s soul, Roused by the promise of the king, beyond her weak control, The exulting tempest of Revenge and Pride raged wild and high, And sent its storm-cloud to her brow, its lightning to her eye! Her haughty lip was quivering with anger and disdain, Her beauteous, jewelled hands were clenched, as if from sudden pain. “Forgive,” Salomé faltering cried, “Forgive my childish glee! ’Twas selfish, vain,—oh! look not thus! but let me ask for _thee_!” Then smiled,—it was a deadly smile,—that lady on her child, And “Swear thou’ll do my bidding, now!” she cried, in accents wild: “Ah! when, from earliest childhood’s hour, did I thine anger dare! Yet, since an oath thy wish must seal,—by Judah’s hopes, I swear!” Herodias stooped,—one whisper brief!—was it a serpent’s hiss, That thus the maiden starts and shrinks beneath the woman’s kiss? A moment’s pause of doubt and dread!—then wild the victim knelt,— “Take, take _my_ worthless life instead! Oh! if thou e’er hast felt A mother’s love,—thou canst not doom—no, no! ’twas but a jest! Speak!—speak! and let me fly once more, confiding, to thy breast!” A hollow and sepulchral tone was hers who made reply: “The oath! the oath!—remember, girl! ’tis registered on high!” Salomé rose,—mute, moveless stood as marble, save in breath, Half senseless in her cold despair, her young cheek blanched like death! But an hour since, so joyous, fond, without a grief or care, Now struck with wo unspeakable,—how dread a change was there! “It shall be done!” was that the voice that rang so gaily sweet, When, innocent and blest she came, but now, with flying feet? “It shall be done!” she turns to go, but, ere she gains the door, One look of wordless, deep reproach she backward casts,—no more! But late she sprang the threshold o’er, a light and blooming child, Now, reckless, in her grief she goes a woman stern and wild. PART III.