Classic Poem

There is feasting in Shushan, the palace,
Where dwells Ahasuerus the bold;
And the blood from the heart of the vineyard
Flows dark through the vessels of gold.

There is revel in Shushan, the palace,
Mirth rings o'er the pavements of light,
To die in the 'broidery of arras,
Aglow in their purple and white.

There, the glory of Media and Persia —
The grandeur that is, was, has been —
But the radiance of King Ahasuerus
Falls not upon Vashti, the Queen!

Alone, and the white stars above me,
Look down with a pitiless stare;
The long grasses shake 'neath my footfall,
The night wind plays soft through my hair.

The mantle that robed me in splendor.
Is cast with the jewels — 't is meet —
For the crest of the diadem royal,
But presses the dust at my feet.

I can hear the swift tread of the dancers,
The laughter of merriment ring;
The strain of mellifluent music
That falls on the ear of the King.

Should he bid me again, should I hearken?
Could Vashti, the queenly, forget
The pleadings of Vashti, the woman —
The depth where her signet is set?

To come where the flush of the wine-cup
Burns red; to be vaunted, a thing
To be gazed on, — a kingly possession,
Like amulet, anklet or ring?

A queen over orgie and revel,
Where wine maketh merry till morn?
Nay, nay! these hot pulses within me
Tell not half of the meed of my scorn!
. . . . . . . . . . .
No more shall these soft arms enfold him,
To give back the love that he gave;
No more; for this heart may be broken,
But may not be bent as a slave!

I go! Through the broad realm, ere dawning,
Like the blare of a trumpeter's blast;
The curse will have gone out before me, —
Memucan's decree shall have passed.

I go; with the mantle upon me,
My womanhood only can bring,
And leave it to History unveiléd,
That Vashti came not to the King!