C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
John Aylmer Dorgan (1836–1867)
The Dead Solomon
K
And the Genii silently wrought around,
Toiling and moiling without a word,
Building the temple without a sound.
In mien or face of fear or rage;
For he had guessed their secret thought,—
They had pined in hell for many an age.
Over his breast streamed his silver beard;
Bowed was his head, as if in prayer,—
As if, through the busy silence there,
The answering voice of God he heard.
Leaning upon his staff in prayer;
And a breath of wind would come and go,
And stir his robe, and beard of snow,
And long white hair;
But he heeded not,
Rapt afar in holy thought.
And the Genii silently wrought around,
Toiling and moiling without a word,
Building the temple without a sound.
Perfected in every part;
And the demons rejoiced at heart,
And made ready to depart,
But dared not speak to Solomon,
To tell him their task was done,
And fulfilled the desire of his heart.
Each cursing the king in his secret heart,—
Secretly cursing the silent king,
Waiting but till he should say “Depart”;
Cursing the king,
Each evil thing:
But he heeded them not, nor raised his head;
For King Solomon was dead!
For a worm had gnawed his staff in twain.
He had prayed to the Lord that the house he planned
Might not be left for another hand,
Might not unfinished remain:
So praying, he had died;
But he had not prayed in vain.
And howling fled the fiends amain:
Bitterly grieved, to be so deceived,
Howling afar they fled.
Idly had they borne his chain,
And done his hateful tasks, in dread
Of mystic penal pain,—
And King Solomon was dead!