The Winged Beetle

170 IN MANU DOMINÆ She watches every twinge that wrings The heart of the struggling sacrifice, Lest she should lose the joy that stings, The furies that entice. Slower and firmer and steadier ! Relentless, ruthless, still she sways ; And the snake-cold stealth and hate of her Flash in the jewels, and bite, and blaze ; While the mystic hand, her minister, Moves in its fatal ways. The victim twists and writhes beneath The scornful spell, the giant grip. He rolls his eyes, he grinds his teeth Like a slave under the whip ; And his tortured groans can only wreathe A sneer upon her lip. In the half-light her jewels flame Like stars that presage pestilence. O laughterless, O hideous game Of sterile smiles, of cold incense ! Her death’s-head grins the gargoyle shame Of her virile virulence. Now let the slave gasp out his soul In the agony supreme !