The Bridegroom stood in the open door,

And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,

Before it touched the ground,

There came a dove, and a thousand doves

Made sweet sound.

'T was the body of Judas Iscariot

Floated away full fleet,

And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.

'T was the Bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckoned, smiling sweet;

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in, and fell at his feet.

The Holy Supper is spread within,

And the many candles shine,

And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!'

The supper wine is poured at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet,
And dries them with his hair.

A woman whom I saw, pitiless, stern,

Bearing the brand of blood

a lithe dark form,

And cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems
Which argued her a Queen, and on her side
An ancient stain of gore, which did befoul
Her royal robe. A murderess in thought
And dreadful act, who took within the toils
Her kingly Lord, and slew him of old time
After burnt Troy. I had no time to speak
When she shrieked thus:

'It doth repent me not
I would 't were yet to do, and I would do it
Again a thousand times, if the shed blood
Might for one hour restore to me the kisses
Of my Ægisthus. Oh, he was divine,
My hero, with the godlike locks and eyes
Of Eros' self! What boots it that they prate
Of wifely duty, love of spouse or child,
Honor or pity, when the swift fire takes
A woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps
With fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies

In ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains
Of old affections, naught but the new flame
Which is unquenched desire?

It did not come,

My blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit
Of solitude and midnight loneliness,
And weary waiting for the tardy news
Of taken Troy. Long years I sate alone,
Widowed, within my palace, while my Lord
Was over seas, waging the accursèd war,
First of the file of Kings. Year after year
Came false report, or harder, no report

Of the great fleet. The summers waxed and waned,
The wintry surges smote the sounding shores,
And yet there came no end of it. They brought
Now hopeless failure, now great victories;

And all alike were false, all but delay

And hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks The heart which suffering wrings not.

So I bore

Long time the solitary years, and sought
To solace the dull days with motherly cares
For those my Lord had left me. My firstborn,
Iphigeneia, sailed at first with him

Upon that fatal voyage, but the young

Orestes and Electra stayed with me

Not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes

The mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws

From the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love
It bore, ay, even tho' the sire be dear;

Much more, then, when he is a King indeed,
Mighty in war and council, but too high

To stoop to a woman's love. But she was gone,
Nor heard I tidings of her, knowing not
If yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare
The load of children, even as I had borne

Her in my opening girlhood, when I leapt

From child to Queen, but never loved the King.

Thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last There came a dreadful rumor-'She is dead, The cruel priests

Thy daughter, years ago.

Clamored for blood; the stern cold Kings stood round

Without a tear, and he, her sire, with them,

To see a virgin bleed. They cut with knives
The taper girlish throat; they watched the blood
Drip slowly on the sand, and the young life
Meek as a lamb come to the

To appease the angry gods.'

sacrifice

And he, the King,

Her father, stood by too, and saw them do it,

The wickedness, breathing no word of wrath,
Till all was done! The cowards! the dull cowards!
I would some black storm, bursting suddenly,

Had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared To waste an innocent life!

I had gone mad,

I know it, but for him, my love, my dear,
My fair sweet love. He came to comfort me
With words of friendship, holding that my Lord
Was bound, perhaps, to let her die — 'The gods
Were ofttimes hard to appease - - or was it indeed
The priests who asked it? Were there any gods?
Or only phantoms, creatures of the brain,
Born of the fears of men, the greed of priests,

Useful to govern women? Had he been

Lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers

Who ever frighted cowards should have brought
His soul to such black depths.' I hearkening to him
As 't were my own thought grown articulate,
Found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love
Hate of my Lord, love of the voice which spoke
Such dear and comfortable words. And thus,

Love to a storm of passion growing, swept
My wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries
The hot sirocco all the bitter pools

Of salt among the sand. I never knew
True love before; I was a child, no more,

When the King cast his eyes on me.

What is it

To have borne the weight of offspring 'neath the zone,
If Love be not their sire; or live long years

Of commerce, not of love? Better a day
Of Passion than the long unlovely years
Of wifely duty, when Love cometh not
To wake the barren days!

And yet at first

I hesitated long, nor would embrace

The blessing that was mine. We are hedged round, We women, by such close-drawn ordinances,

Set round us by our tyrants, that we fear

To overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds
Of custom; but at last Love, waking in me,
Burst all my chains asunder, and I lived
For naught but Love.

My son, the young Orestes,

I sent far off; my girl Electra only

Remained, too young to doubt me, and I knew

At last what was to live.

So the swift years

Fleeted and found me happy, till the dark
Ill-omened day when Rumor, thousand-tongued,
Whispered of taken Troy; and from my dream
Of happiness, sudden I woke, and knew
The coming retribution. We had grown
Too loving for concealment, and our tale
Of mutual love was bruited far and wide
Through Argos. All the gossips bruited it,
And were all tongue to tell it to the King

When he should come. And should the cold proud Lord