ZENOBIA.
(HARRIET HOSMER'S STATUE.)
The passive hands
Held loosely by their golden weight of chain,—
The heavy folds of mantle and of robe
Partaking of her majesty,—the mien
So full of royal dignity and grace,—
Thus, with a cloud upon the perfect face,
A shadowy sorrow veiling all its fire,
A world of passion sleeping on the lips,
And down-dropped eyes that spoke the heart within,
Zenobia walked through Rome.
Held loosely by their golden weight of chain,—
The heavy folds of mantle and of robe
Partaking of her majesty,—the mien
So full of royal dignity and grace,—
Thus, with a cloud upon the perfect face,
A shadowy sorrow veiling all its fire,
A world of passion sleeping on the lips,
And down-dropped eyes that spoke the heart within,
Zenobia walked through Rome.
She does not see
The changing looks of pity or of hate
That fall on her from unfamiliar eyes;
Nor hear the rumble of the chariot wheels
That bear the haughty conqueror. Away
Beyond the yellow Tiber, and the flow
Of the blue sea that laps the Syrian strand,
The changing looks of pity or of hate
That fall on her from unfamiliar eyes;
Nor hear the rumble of the chariot wheels
That bear the haughty conqueror. Away
Beyond the yellow Tiber, and the flow
Of the blue sea that laps the Syrian strand,
