Poems (Kennedy)/Power's Greek Slave

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POWER'S GREEK SLAVE
WITHIN the vaulted rooms where soft lights fellI passed them by—each gilded frame where shoneA pictured face, sea scene or shaded woodFrom master brush; and so at last I stoodWithin 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 toneHer story sad and strange—her unknown lifeEre galling chains had bitten to the bloodThe supple, rounded wrists of her.The supple, rounded wrists of her.Came sheFrom 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 leftA purple shadow 'neath the lids of snow? ​What destiny had marked her for its ownIn 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 fateTo maiden chastity and pure esteem?Or yet—or yet, like some incarnate dreamOf hero-worth, was there in that lost stateWhence 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 estateGrieves she, in this white silence, for her homeAnd for her lover's tender kiss?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'erGoes on its thoughtless way, nor e'er has guessedWhat stinging, martyr thorns were on her temples pressed.

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