The Dance of Salome by Lilla D. A. Stuttle

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 26, 1879

The Dance of Salome.

By Lilla D. A. Stuttle

There was feasting and joy in the palace of Herod, And all the enchantments of music and song: No thought of the future, no care for the morrow, E’er hushed the gay mirth of that festival throng; And the sparkling gems, and the jewels fine, Were mirrored back from the purple wine.

But, hushed for a moment the din of the banquet, In mute admiration they gaze on the scene, As the radiant form of a beauteous fairy Appears ’mong the guests, like an orient queen; ’Tis the lovely Salome, who appeareth to sing And dance for the joy of the sensual king.

The heart of the monarch is snared by her beauty; A subtle enchantment is over him cast; His senses are held by a wild fascination,— The charmer hath conquered proud Herod at last; And he maketh a vow, and a solemn behest, To grant the fair damsel whate’er she request.

With heart throbbing wildly, and spirit exultant, She flies from the scenes of that festival bright, And thus in the ear of Herodias speaketh,— “What, what shall I ask of the monarch to-night?” “Return to the banquet, and make no delay, And thus to king Herod my daughter shall say:—

“Go, send ye your soldiers to yon dreary dungeon, And bid them prepare, and make ready to bring, And place in a charger the head of the prophet,— Lo, this is the trophy I ask of the king.” The horrible message is quickly said, And the proud king’s visage pales with dread.

But his terrible promise can never be broken,— The oath of the king must unaltered remain; And soon the dark cell of the herald of Jesus The soldiers have reached—and the prophet is slain. The ghastly head on the charger lies, And the maid departs with her gory prize.

But a terrible pall like a mantle of darkness Is spread o’er the king, like a withering blight; In vain from his fancy he striveth to banish The face of the dead, on that horrible night, The ghastly smile which the white lips wore, The matted locks, and the dripping gore.

At last, in the midst of his triumph and splendor, He feeleth the stroke of the chastening rod; ’Mid terrible anguish, the trembling monarch Is smitten with death, by the angel of God. No hope of the future dispelleth the gloom,— ’Mid silence and darkness, he lies in the tomb.

Mrs. Lilla D. A. Stuttle.

Vernon, Mich.