Vashti.

She leaned her head upon her hand
    And heard the King's decree -
"My lords are feasting in my halls;
    Bid Vashti come to me.

"I've shown the treasures of my house,
    My costly jewels rare,
But with the glory of her eyes
    No rubies can compare.

"Adorn'd and crown'd I'd have her come,
    With all her queenly grace,
And, 'mid my lords and mighty men,
    Unveil her lovely face.

"Each gem that sparkles in my crown,
    Or glitters on my throne,
Grows poor and pale when she appears,
    My beautiful, my own!"

All waiting stood the chamberlains
    To hear the Queen's reply.
They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,
    But light flash'd to her eye:

"Go, tell the King," she proudly said,
    "That I am Persia's Queen,
And by his crowds of merry men
    I never will be seen.

"I'll take the crown from off my head
    And tread it 'neath my feet,
Before their rude and careless gaze
    My shrinking eyes shall meet.

"A queen unveil'd before the crowd! -
    Upon each lip my name! -
Why, Persia's women all would blush
    And weep for Vashti's shame!

"Go back!" she cried, and waved her hand,
    And grief was in her eye:
"Go, tell the King," she sadly said,
    "That I would rather die."


They brought her message to the King;
    Dark flash'd his angry eye;
'Twas as the lightning ere the storm
    Hath swept in fury by.

Then bitterly outspoke the King,
    Through purple lips of wrath -
"What shall be done to her who dares
    To cross your monarch's path?"

Then spake his wily counsellors -
    "O King of this fair land!
From distant Ind to Ethiop,
    All bow to thy command.

"But if, before thy servants' eyes,
    This thing they plainly see,
That Vashti doth not heed thy will
    Nor yield herself to thee,

"The women, restive 'neath our rule,
    Would learn to scorn our name,
And from her deed to us would come
    Reproach and burning shame.

"Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand
    This stern but just decree,
That Vashti lay aside her crown,
    Thy Queen no more to be."

She heard again the King's command,
    And left her high estate;
Strong in her earnest womanhood,
    She calmly met her fate,

And left the palace of the King,
    Proud of her spotless name -
A woman who could bend to grief,
    But would not bow to shame.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was an African American abolitionist, suffragist, poet, teacher, public speaker, and writer. Born free in Baltimore, Maryland, she was one of the first African American women to be published in the United States. She was active in social reform movements and used her poetry and prose to advocate for abolition and women's rights. Her best-known works include the poetry collection "Forest Leaves" and the novel "Iola Leroy."

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Death Of The Old Sea King.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

The Pure In Heart Shall See God.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

The Dying Bondman.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

Home, Sweet Home.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Revolt Of Vashti (From The Drama Of Mizpah)

AHASUERAS

Is this the way to greet thy loving spouse,
But now returned from scenes of blood and strife?
I pray thee raise thy veil and let me gaze
Upon that beauty which hath greater power
To conquer me than all the arts of war!

VASHTI

My beauty!    Ay, my BEAUTY!    I do hold,
In thy regard, no more an honoured place
Than yonder marble pillar, or the gold
And jewelled wine-cup which thy lips caress.
Thou wouldst degrade me in the people's sight!

AHASUERAS

Degrade thee, Vashti?    Rather do I seek
To show my people who are gathered here
How, as the consort of so fair a queen,
I feel more pride than as the mighty king:
For there be many rulers on the earth,
But only ONE such queen.    Come, raise thy veil!

VASH...

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Honeymoon Scene (From The Drama Of Mizpah)

AHASUERAS

What were thy thoughts, sweet Esther?    Something passed
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Thy soul from mine, and left me desolate.
Thy thoughts were not of me?

ESTHER

    Ay, ALL of thee!
I wondered, if in truth, thou wert content
With me - thy choice.    Was there no other one
Of all who passed before thee at thy court
Whose memory pursues thee with regret?

AHASUERAS

I do confess I much regret that day
And wish I could relive it.

ESTHER

    Oh!    My lord!

AHASUERAS

Yea!    I regret those hours I wasted on
The poor procession that preceded thee.
Hadst thou come first, then all the added wealth

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In Honour Of That High And Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth

Proem.
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Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,
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The sound thereof raps every human sense
That men account it no impiety
To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.
Thousands bring offrings (though out of date)
Thy world of honours to accumulate.
Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,
Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.
Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,
T accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.
Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
The acclamations of the poor, as rich,
Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,
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The Huron Chief's Daughter.

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre,
The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire.
It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude,
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To harm the victim who there stood, in helpless thraldom bound?
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Oh! lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line,
And e'en mid Europe's daughters fair, surpassing might she shine:
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The Story Of Prince Désing

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    And like a hive swarmed on the castled hills.

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An Appeal To My Countrywomen.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian
    Who weeps in her desolate home.
You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia
    From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

You can pity the men who have woven
    From passion and appetite chains
To coil with a terrible tension
    Around their heartstrings and brains.

You can sorrow o'er little children
    Disinherited from their birth,
The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,
    Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compassion;
    Your mercy and pity they share.
For the wretched, outcast and fallen
    You have tenderness, love and care.


But hark! from our Southland are floating
    Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain,
And women heart-stricken are weeping

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper