Vanity

ALAS, Salome ! Could’st thou know
How great man is, — how great thou art,—
What destined worlds of weal or woe
Lurk in the shallowest human heart, —

From thee thy vanities would drop,
Like lusts in noble anger spurned
By one who finds, beyond all hope,
The passion of his youth returned.

Ah, sun-bright face, whose brittle smile
Is cold as sunbeams flashed on ice !
All, lips how sweet, yet hard the while!
Ah, soul too barren even for vice!

Mirror of Vanity ! Those eyes
No beam the less around them shed,
Albeit in that red scarf there lies
The Dancer’s meed,— the Prophet’s head.

FALSE and Fair ! Beware, beware !
There is a Tale that stabs at thee !
The Arab Seer ! he stripped thee bare
Long since ! He knew thee, Vanity !
By day a mincing foot is thine :
Thou runnest along the spider’s line : —
Ay, but heavy sounds thy tread
By night, among the uncoffined dead !

Fair and Foul ! Thy mate, the Ghoul,
Beats, bat-like, at thy golden gate !
Around the graves the night-winds howl:
“ Arise ! ” they cry, "thy feast doth wait!”
Dainty fingers thine, and nice.
With thy bodkin picking rice ! —
Ay, but when the night’s o’erhead,
Limb from limb they rend the dead !