Tapestries

CROUCHED low, at bay; her vesture rent apart;
Ungirt the fair false breast where Antony lay,
Lord over half the world but yesterday;
Her bloodless fingers twined above her heart;

Her tawny hair athwart her brows, — a net
Wherein no more shall souls be snared or slain ;
Her cheeks like pale blush-roses after rain ;
Her cruel lips, like marble, carved and set;

And gray wan eyes, forgetful of their guile,
As through the tangled fringes of their lids,
Lost in some dream of palms and pyramids,
They spy, at last, the hooded worm of Nile.

THE white-faced priest, thrust back by brawny hands,
Gasps forth, unheard, the remnant of his prayer,
With lifted crucifix. The wistful air
Tugs at her shroud-like mantle, where she stands.

Her eyes, which dare not look, for utter fear,
Are bent upon her bruised, unsandaled feet;
Almost her waiting heart forgets to beat.
Then, without voice, or tread to fright the ear,

O’er the strewn sand begins to glide and run
A shadow, nameless, stealthy, swift,—forecast
By that advancing shape, most dread, and last
That e’er shall come betwixt her and the sun.

BROWN folded arms; sleek shoulders, brown and bare;
And bare her lissome ankles, brown and slim ;
Her swart brows lowered, and her eyes made dim
Beneath the cloudy ambush of her hair ;

Scarlet her tunic, and in threefold strand
Gold lustrous serpents coiled on wrist and throat:
Tus, before Herod, — whose dull eyeballs gloat
On her lithe beauty, whilst, on either hand,

His bearded lords stretch eager necks to see, —
In the cool dusk of awnings that uplift
To show far palm-trees through a shining rift,
Bows low the dancing maid of Galilee.