VASHTI'S SCROLL
Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen!
Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore
The crown of Persia with such stately grace!
But yesterday a royal wife; but now
From my estate cast down, and fallen so low
That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name
Backward and forward on their mocking tongues.
In all the king's broad realm there is not one
To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog
My hand had fondled, in the palace walls
Fawns on my rival. When I left the court,
Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me,
Licking my fingers, leaping in my face,
And frisking round me till I reached the gates.
Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed,
And frequent lookings backward, and low whines
Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile
If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears,
Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back,
Leaving me desolate. So went they all
Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow
Set his own royal crown and called me queen,
Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried,
"Long live Queen Vashti, Persia's fairest Rose,
Mother of Princes, and the nation's Hope!"
The rose is withered now; the queen's no more.
To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling
Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll
Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore
The crown of Persia with such stately grace!
But yesterday a royal wife; but now
From my estate cast down, and fallen so low
That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name
Backward and forward on their mocking tongues.
In all the king's broad realm there is not one
To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog
My hand had fondled, in the palace walls
Fawns on my rival. When I left the court,
Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me,
Licking my fingers, leaping in my face,
And frisking round me till I reached the gates.
Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed,
And frequent lookings backward, and low whines
Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile
If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears,
Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back,
Leaving me desolate. So went they all
Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow
Set his own royal crown and called me queen,
Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried,
"Long live Queen Vashti, Persia's fairest Rose,
Mother of Princes, and the nation's Hope!"
The rose is withered now; the queen's no more.
To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling
Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll
