The Daughter of Herodias

My heart is heavy for each goodly man Whom crownéd woman or sweet courtezan Hath slain or brought to greater shames than death. But now, O Daughter of Herodias! I weep for him, of whom the story saith, Thou didst procure his bitter fate:—Alas, He seems so fair!—May thy curse never pass!

Where art thou writhing? Herod’s palace-floor Has fallen through: there shalt thou dance no more; And Herod is a worm now. In thy place, —Salome, Viper!—do thy coils yet keep That woman’s flesh they bore with such a grace? Have thine eyes still the love-lure hidden deep, The ornament of tears, they could not weep?

Thou wast quite perfect in the splendid guile Of woman’s beauty; thou hadst the whole smile That can dishonour heroes, and recal Fair saints prepared for heaven back to hell: And He, whose unlived glory thou mad’st fall All beautiful and spotless, at thy spell, Was great and fit for thee by whom he fell.

O, is it now sufficing sweet to thee— Through all the long uncounted years that see The undistinguished lost ones waste away— To twine thee, biting, on those locks that bleed, As bled they through thy fingers on that day? Or hast thou, all unhallowed, some fierce need Thy soul on his anointed grace to feed?

Or hast thou, rather, for that serpent’s task Thou didst accomplish in thy woman-mask, Some perfect inconceivable reward Of serpent’s slimy pleasure?—all the thing Thou didst beseech thy master, who is Lord Of those accursèd hosts that creep and sting, To give thee for the spoil thou shouldest bring?

He was a goodly spoil for thee to win! —Men’s souls and lives were wholly dark with sin; And so God’s world was changed with wars and gold, No part of it was holy; save, maybe, The desert and the ocean as of old:— But such a spotless way of life had he, His soul was as the desert or the sea.

I think he had not heard of the far towns; Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings’ crowns; Before the thought of God took hold of him, As he was sitting dreaming in the calm Of one first noon, upon the desert’s rim, Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm, All overcome with some strange inward balm.

But then, so wonderful and lovely seemed That thought, he straight became as though he dreamed A vast thing false and fair, which day and night Absorbed him in some rapture—very high Above the common swayings of delight And general yearnings, that quite occupy Men’s passions, and suffice them till they die:

Yea, soon as it had entered him—that thought Of God—he felt that he was being wrought All holy: more and more it filled his heart; And seemed, indeed, a spirit of pure flame Set burning in his soul’s most inward part. And from the Lord’s great wilderness there came A mighty voice calling on him by name.

He numbered not the changes of the year, The days, the nights, and he forgot all fear Of death: each day he thought there should have been A shining ladder set for him to climb Athwart some opening in the heavens, e’en To God’s eternity, and see, sublime— His face whose shadow passing fills all time.

But he walked through the ancient wilderness. O, there the prints of feet were numberless And holy all about him! And quite plain He saw each spot an angel silvershod Had lit upon; where Jacob too had lain The place seemed fresh,—and, bright and lately trod, A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.

And often, while the sacred darkness trailed Along the mountains smitten and unveiled By rending lightnings,—over all the noise Of thunders and the earth that quaked and bowed From its foundations—he could hear the voice Of great Elias prophesying loud To Him whose face was covered by a cloud.

Already he was shown so perfectly The awful mystic grace and sanctity Of all the earth, there was no part his feet With sandal covering might dare to tread; Because that in it he was sure to meet The fair sword-bearing angels, or some dread Eternal prophet numbered with the dead.

So he believed that he should purify His body, till the sin of it should die, And the unfailing spirit and great word Of One—who is too bright to be beheld, And in his speech too fearful to be heard By mortal man—should come down and be held In him as in those holy ones of eld.

And to believe in this was rapture more Than any that the thought of living bore To tempt him: so the pleasant days of youth Were but the days of striving and of prayer; And all the beauty of those days, forsooth, He counted as an evil or a snare, And would have left it in the desert there.

Ah, spite of all the scourges that had bit So fiercely his fair body, branding it With many a painful over-written vow Of perfect sanctity—what man shall say How often, weak with groanings, he would bow Before the angels of the place, and pray That all his body might consume away?

For through whole bitter days it seemed in vain That all the mighty desert had no stain Of sin around him; that the burning breaths Went forth from the eternal One, and rolled For ever through it, filling it with deaths, And plagues, and fires; that he did behold The earthquakes and the wonders manifold:

It seemed in vain that all the place was bright Ineffably with that unfading light No man who worketh evil can abide; That he could see too with his open eyes Fair troops of deathless ones, and those that died In martyrdoms, or went up to the skies In fiery cars—walk there with no disguise;—

It seemed in vain that he was there alone With no man’s sin to tempt him but his own;— Since in his body he did bear about A seeming endless sin he could not quell With the most sharp coercement, nor cast out Through any might of prayer. O, who can tell— Save God—how often in despair he fell? The very stones seemed purer far than he; And every naked rock and every tree Looked great and calm, composed in one long thought Of holiness; each bird and creeping thing Rejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taught The legend of an ancient minist’ring To some fair saint of old there sojourning.

Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures there Were grand, and some way sanctified; most fair The very lions stood, and had no shame Before the angels; and what time were poured The floods of the Lord’s anger forth, they came Quite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roared Among the roaring thunders of the Lord:

Yet He—while in him day by day, divine, The clear inspirèd thought went on to shine, And heaven was opening every radiant door Upon his spirit—He, in that fair dress Of weak humanity his senses bore, Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and less Than any dweller in the wilderness.

Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone; And often he had wrestled all alone With their fair beauty, conquering the pride And various pleasure of them with some quick And hard inflicted pain that might abide,— Assailing all the sense with constant prick Until the lust or pride fell faint and sick.

Natheless there grew and stayed upon his face The wonderful unconquerable grace Of a young man made beautiful with love; Because the thought of God was wholly spread Like love upon it; and still fair above All crownèd heads of kings remained his head Whereon the halo of the Lord was shed.

Ah, how long was it, since the first red rush Of that surpassing thought made his cheek blush With pleasure, as he sat—a tender child— And wondered at the desert, and the long Rough prickly paths that led out to the wild Where all the men of God, holy and strong, Had dwelt and purified themselves—how long?—

Before he rose up from his knees one day, And felt that he was purified as they; That he had trodden out the sin at last, And that the light was filling him within? How many of the months and years had past Uncounted?—But the place he was born in No longer knew him: no man was his kin.

O then it was a most sweet, holy will That came upon him, making his soul thrill With joy indeed, and with a perfect trust,— For he soon thought of men and of the king All tempted in the world, with gold and lust, And women there, and every fatal thing, And none to save their souls from perishing—

And so he vowed that he would go forth straight From God there in the desert, with the great Unearthliness upon him, and adjure The nations of the whole world with his voice; Until they should resist each pleasant lure Of gold and woman, and make such a choice As his, that they might evermore rejoice.

Thus beautiful and good was He, at length, Who came before King Herod in his strength, And shouted to him with a great command To purify himself, and put away That unclean woman set at his right hand; And after all to bow himself and pray, And be in terror of the Judgment Day!

He never had seen houses like to that Fair-columned, cedar-builded one where sat King Herod. Flawless cedar was each beam, Wrought o’er with flaming brass: along the wall Great brazen images of beasts did gleam, With wondrous flower-works and palm trees tall; And folded purples hung about it all.

He never had beheld so many thrones, As those of ivory and precious stones Whereon the noble company was raised About the king:—he never had seen gems So costly, nor so wonderful as blazed Upon their many crowns and diadems, And trailed upon their garments’ trodden hems:

But he had seen in mighty Lebanon The cedars no man’s axe hath lit upon; And he had often worshipped, falling down In dazzling temples opened straight to him, Where One who had great lightnings for His crown Was suddenly made present, vast and dim Through crowded pinions of the Cherubim!

Wherefore he had no fear to stand and shout To all men in the place, and there to flout Those fair and fearful women who were seen Quite triumphing in that work of their smile To shame a goodly king. And he cast, e’en A sudden awe that undid for a while The made-up shameless visages of guile.

And when Herodias—that many times Polluted one, assured now in all crimes Past fear or turning—when she, her fierce tongue Thrice forked with indignation, hotly spoke Quick wild beseeching words, wherewith she clung To Herod, praying him by some death-stroke To do her vengeance there before all folk—

Ah, spite of every urging that her hate Did put into her lips,—so fair and great Seemed that accuser standing weaponless, Yet wholly terrible with his bright speech As ’twere some sword of flaming holiness, That no man dared to join her and beseech His death; but dread came somehow upon each.

For he was surely terrible to see So plainly sinless, so divinely free To judge them; being in a perfect youth, Yet walking like an angel in a man Reproving all men with inspired truth. And Herod himself spoke not, but began To tremble: through his soul the warning ran.

—Then that Salome did put off the shame Of her mere virgin girlhood, and became A woman! Then she did at once essay Her beauty’s magic, and unfold the wings Of her enchanted feet,—to have men say She slew him—born indeed for wondrous things. Her dance was fit to ruin saints or kings.

O, her new beauty was above all praise! She came with dancing in shy devious ways, And while she danced she sang. The virgin bandlet of her forehead brake, Her hair came round her like a shining snake; To loving her men’s hearts within them sprang The while she danced and sang.

Her long black hair danced round her like a snake Allured to each charmed movement she did make; Her voice came strangely sweet; She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me— Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see?” And what her voice did sing her dancing feet Seemed ever to repeat.

She sang, “O, Herod, wilt thou look on me? What sweet I have, I have it all for thee;” And through the dance and song She freed and floated on the air her arms Above dim veils that hid her bosom’s charms: The passion of her singing was so strong It drew all hearts along.

Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air, They seemed like floating flowers the most fair— White lilies the most choice; And in the gradual bending of her hand There lurked a grace that no man could withstand; Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice, Most made his heart rejoice.

The veils fell round her like thin coiling mists Shot through by topaz suns, and amethysts, And rubies she had on; And out of them her jewelled body came, And seemed to all quite like a slender flame That curled and glided, and that burnt and shone Most fair to look upon.

Then she began, on that well-polished floor, Whose stones seemed taking radiance more and more From steps too bright to see, A certain measure that was like some spell Of winding magic, wherein heaven and hell Were joined to lull men’s souls eternally In some mid ecstasy:

For it was so inexplicably wrought Of soft alternate motions, that she taught Each sweeping supple limb, And in such intricate and wondrous ways With bendings of her body, that the praise Lost breath upon men’s lips, and all grew dim Save her so bright and slim.

And through the swift mesh’d serpents of her hair That lash’d and leapt on each place white and fair Of bosom or of arm, And through the blazing of the numberless And whirling jewelled fires of her dress, Her perfect face no passion could disarm Of its reposeful charm.

Her head oft drooped as in some languid death Beneath brim tastes of joy, and her rich breath Heaved faintly from her breast; Her long eyes, opened fervently and wide, Did seem with endless rapture to abide In some fair trance through which the soul possest Love, ecstasy, and rest.

But lo—while each man fixed his eyes on her, And was himself quite fillèd with the stir His heart did make within— The place was full of devils everywhere: They came in from the desert and the air; They came from all the palaces of sin, And each heart they were in:

They lurked beneath the purples, and did crawl Or crouch in unseen corners of the hall, Among the brass and gold; They climbed the brazen pillars till they lined The chamber fair; and one went up behind The throne of Herod—fearful to behold— The Serpent king of old.

Yea, too, before those blinded men there went Some even to Salome; and they lent Strange charms she did not shun. She stretched her hand forth, and inclined her ear; She knew those men would neither see nor hear: A devil did support her head, and one Her steps’ light fabric spun.

O, then her voice with singing all unveiled, In no trained timid accents, straight assailed King Herod’s open heart: The amorous supplication wove and wound Soft deadly sins about it; the words found Fair traitor thoughts there,—singing snakes did dart Their poison in each part.

She sang, “O look on me, and look on Love: We three are here together, and above— What heaven may there be? None for thine heart without this spell of mine, Yea, this my beauty, yea, these limbs that shine And make thy senses shudder; and for me, No heaven without thee!

“O, all the passion in me on this day Rises into one song to sweep away The breakers of Love’s bond; For is it not a pleasant bond indeed, And made of all the flowers in life’s mead? And is not Love a master fair and fond? And is not Death beyond?

“O, who are these that will adjure thee, King, To put away this tender flower-thing, This love that is thy bliss? Dost thou think thou canst live indeed, and dare The joyless remnant of pale days, the bare Hard tomb, and feed through cold eternities Thy heart without one kiss?

“Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lips Kept red and living with perpetual sips Of Love’s rich cup of wine? That thy fair body shall not fall away, And waste among the worms that bitter day Thou hast no lover round thy neck to twine Fond arms like these of mine?

“I say they are no prophets,—very deaths, And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breaths Who speak against delight; Pale distant slayers of humanity Have tainted them, and sent them forth to try Weak lures to make man give up joyous right Of days for empty night.

“I tell thee, in their wilderness shall be No herbs enough for food for them and thee, No rock to give thee drink; I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat, Or but a mirage to betray thy feet, And draw thee quicker to some grave’s dread brink Where thou shalt fall and sink.

“Turn rather unto me, and hear my voice Against these desert howlings, and rejoice: Now surely do I crave To treble this my beauty, and embalm My words with deathless thrill, singing the psalm Of pleasure to thee, King,—so I may save Thy fair days from this grave.

“Yea, now of all my beauty will I strive With these mad prophesiers till I drive Their ravings from thine ear: Against their rudeness I will set my grace, My softness, and the magic of my face; And spite of all their curses thou shalt hear And let my voice draw near:

“Against their loud revilings I will try The long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh, All my heart’s tender way; Against their deserts—here, before thine eyes My love shall open thee a paradise, Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stay And seek no better way:

“And rather than these haters of thy joy Should anyhow allure thee to destroy Thy heart’s prosperity,— O, I will throw my woman’s arms entwined About thy body; ere thy lips can find One word of yielding, I will kiss them dry: —And failing, let me die!

“But look on me, for it is in my soul To make the measure of thy glory whole— With many goodly things To crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love, Till there shall scarcely be a name above King Herod’s, in the mouth of one who sings The fame of mighty kings:

“For see how great and fair a realm is this— My untried love—the never conquered bliss All hoarded in my breast; My beauty and my love were jewels meet To make the glory of a king complete, And I,—O thou of kingship half-possest— Can crown thee with the rest!

“I stand before thee—on my head the crown Of all thou lackest yet in thy renown— Ah, King, take this of me! And in my hand I bear a brimming cup That sparkles; to thine eyes I hold it up: A royal draught of life-long pleasure—see, The wine is fit for thee!

“Ah, wilt thou pass me? Wilt thou let me give Thy fair life to some meaner man to live? Nay, here—if I am sweet— Thou shalt not. I will save thee with the sight Of all my sweetness, save thee with the might And charm of all my singing lips’ deceit, Or with my dancing feet.

“I have indeed some power. A lure lies Within my tender lips—behind my eyes— Concealed in all my way; And while I seem entreating, I compel, Yea, while I do but plead, I use a spell— Ah secretly—but surely. Who are they That ever turn away?

“Now, thou hast barely seen bright glittering The gilded cup of pleasures that I swung Before thy reeling gaze,— The deep beginnings of sweet drunkenness Are in thy heart already, more or less, And on thy soul deliciously there preys A thirst no joy allays.

“Dost thou not feel, each time my long hair sweeps The glowing floor, how through thy being creeps A vague yet sweet desire?— How writhes in every sense a tiny snake Of pleasure biting till it seems to wake A fever of sharp lusts that never tire, Unquenchable as fire?

“Is there not wrought a madness in thy brain Each time my thin veils part and close again— Each time their flying ring Is seen a moment’s space encircling me With filmy changes—each time, rapidly Rolled down, their cloud-like gauzes billowing About my limbs they fling?

“Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will; Attend to no false pratings that would kill Thy heart, and make thee fall: But now a little lean to me, and fear My charming. Ah, thy fame to me is dear! Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call, Might slay thee after all.

“For even while I sing, the unseen grace Of Love descending hath filled all this place With most strong prevalence; His miracle is raging in the breasts Of all these men, and mightily he rests On me and thee. His power is too intense, No curse shall drive him hence.

“—O, Love, invisible, eternal God, In whose delicious ways all men have trod, This day Thou truly hast My heart: thy inspiration fills my tongue With great angelic madness; I have sung Set words that in my bosom thou hast cast— Thine am I to the last!

“My feet are like two liquid flames that leap For joy at thee; I feel thy spirit sweep— Yea, like a southern wind— Through all the enchanted fibres of my soul; I am a harp o’er which thy vast breaths roll, And one day thou shalt break me: none shall find A wreck of me behind.

“And now all palpitating, O I pray Thy utmost passion while I cry—away With all Love’s enemies! A man—borne up between the closing wings Of two eternities of unknown things, May catch this seraph charmer as he flies, And hold him till he dies;

“And yet some bitter ones, whom coming night Hath wholly entered, grudge man this small right Of joy, and seek to fill His rushing moment with the monstrous hiss Of shapeless terrors, poisoning the bliss Brief nestled in his bosom—merely till Forced out by its death chill!

“What voice is this the envious wilderness Hath sent among us foully to distress And haunt our lives with fear? What vulture, shrieking on the scent of death— What yelping jackal—what insidious breath Of pestilence hath ventured to draw near, And enter even here?

“No kindred flesh of fair humanity Yon fiend hath, seeking through lives doomed to die Death’s foretaste to infuse: His body is but raised up from the slain Unburied thousands that long years have lain About the desert: Death himself doth choose His pale disguise to use.

“But, even though he be from some new God, He shall not turn us who love’s ways have trod, Nor make us break love’s vow. Nay, rather, if a single beauty dwells In me, if in that beauty there be spells To win my will of any man—O thou, King Herod, hear me now!—

“Let it be for his ruin! Ah, let me, With all in me thou countest fair to see, Procure this and no more! If yet, with tender prevalence, my voice May ask a thing of thee—this is my choice, Though thou wouldst buy my sweets with all thy store— This all I sell them for.

“Yea, are there lures of softness in my eyes? My eyes are—for his death. Is my heart’s prize A seeming fair reward? My virgin heart is—for his blood here shed; Its passion—for the falling of his head; And on that man my kiss shall be outpoured Who slays him with the sword!”

Invisible—in supernatural haze, Of shapes that seem not shapes to human gaze— The devils were half awed as they did stand Around her; each one in his separate hell All inwardly was forced to praise her well: And every man was fain to lose his hand Or do all that sweet woman might command.

There was a tumult.—Cloven foot and scale Of fiend with iron heel and coat of mail Were rolled and hustled in the rage to slay That fair young Saviour: when they murdered him And brought his head, still beautiful—though dim And drenched with blood—the aureole did play Above it, slowly vanishing away.

I weep to think of him and his fair light So quenched—of him thrust into some long night Of unaccomplishment so soon, alas! And Thou, who on that ancient palace floor Didst dance, where dost thou writhe now evermore— Salome, Daughter of Herodias? O woman-viper—may thy curse ne’er pass!