"It was some satrap's palace, sure,
In old time, far away,
Or else of some great Christian prince,
I've heard my father say,"
"Arab! it was King Herod's dome;
'Twas there he feasted, free,
His captains, and the chief estates,
And lords of Galilee;
"'Twas there the impious dancer's heel
Lured his rash soul astray."
But, ere the earnest tale was told,
The ploughman turn'd away.
O ruthless king! thy vaunted pomp
And power avail thee not,
Who here, beside thy palace-gates,
Art by the serf forgot:
Yet he whose blood in prison-cell
By thy decree was spilt,
Whose head, upon the charger brought,
Appeased revengeful guilt,
His name, amid a deathless page,
Gleams forth with living ray,
While all thy royalty and pride
Are swept like foam away.
Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/104
THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE.
103
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