Poems (Kennedy)/Power's Greek Slave
POWER'S GREEK SLAVE
WITHIN the vaulted rooms where soft lights fell
I passed them by—each gilded frame where shone
A pictured face, sea scene or shaded wood
From master brush; and so at last I stood
Within a silent niche, shut off alone,
Before that wonder wrought from Parian stone—
The Greek Slave in her pallid solitude.
Her haunting eyes looked through my every mood;
And there I questioned with myself in muttered tone
Her story sad and strange—her unknown life
Ere galling chains had bitten to the blood
The supple, rounded wrists of her.
Came she
From where o'er Thessaly the white-clouds go?
Did Attic stars her first awakening see?
Or did the blue Laconian sky bend low,
So low, to smile into her eyes it left
A purple shadow 'neath the lids of snow?
What destiny had marked her for its own
In that dim land of mystery and tears?
Did royal purple veil those polished limbs,
Or humble hovel hold her first young years?
Was she a vestal, bound by vows of fate
To maiden chastity and pure esteem?
Or yet—or yet, like some incarnate dream
Of hero-worth, was there in that lost state
Whence she was snatched by lustful hands of hate,
One who had won her soul in love supreme,
While human eyes gloat o'er her new estate
Grieves she, in this white silence, for her home
And for her lover's tender kiss?
Vain quest,
Vain longing to unwind the tangled skein!
Those marble lips, as pale as sea-beat foam,
Their secret keep through all of Time's unrest.
The careless world that cons her beauty o'er
Goes on its thoughtless way, nor e'er has guessed
What stinging, martyr thorns were on her temples pressed.
I passed them by—each gilded frame where shone
A pictured face, sea scene or shaded wood
From master brush; and so at last I stood
Within a silent niche, shut off alone,
Before that wonder wrought from Parian stone—
The Greek Slave in her pallid solitude.
Her haunting eyes looked through my every mood;
And there I questioned with myself in muttered tone
Her story sad and strange—her unknown life
Ere galling chains had bitten to the blood
The supple, rounded wrists of her.
Came she
From where o'er Thessaly the white-clouds go?
Did Attic stars her first awakening see?
Or did the blue Laconian sky bend low,
So low, to smile into her eyes it left
A purple shadow 'neath the lids of snow?
What destiny had marked her for its own
In that dim land of mystery and tears?
Did royal purple veil those polished limbs,
Or humble hovel hold her first young years?
Was she a vestal, bound by vows of fate
To maiden chastity and pure esteem?
Or yet—or yet, like some incarnate dream
Of hero-worth, was there in that lost state
Whence she was snatched by lustful hands of hate,
One who had won her soul in love supreme,
While human eyes gloat o'er her new estate
Grieves she, in this white silence, for her home
And for her lover's tender kiss?
Vain quest,
Vain longing to unwind the tangled skein!
Those marble lips, as pale as sea-beat foam,
Their secret keep through all of Time's unrest.
The careless world that cons her beauty o'er
Goes on its thoughtless way, nor e'er has guessed
What stinging, martyr thorns were on her temples pressed.