The Idol of the Opera House

© Per Buhre

From parted lips of pallid rose

The lady’s voice like angel’s wings

Flew from the stage like blesséd prose.

In the golden temple she sings

Songs of beauty, and songs of kings.

I watched as notes, both high and low,

Turned each eye towards that lovely dame

And with a final crescendo,

Her audience, entranced, proclaimed,

 “Give praise and glory to her name.”

I thought I heard Thy voice aloud:

“No idols shall o’rtake my throne.”

As applause echoed from the crowd,

I felt a stillness in my bones,

And knew she must for sins atone.

Upon her head rained carnations fair

The wilting petals crowned her queen

Gently resting amongst her hairs

A pagan goddess of the spring,

Her peoples’ off’rings ‘round her feet.

Yet I, my God, shall not stand by

To watch this image take Thy place

Though many hear her songs and cry,

No-thing shall part me from Thy grace

Or keep me from Thy loving face.

So now I do my Father’s will,

And craft a crown, so pure, so bright

Heavy enough to wound or kill,

And when her song has reached its height,

I send the crown into the night.

The idol of the opera house

Is stopped mid-song, her eyes they fade,

While ruby beads run down her blouse.

She drops to her knees, where she prays

Until upon the floor she lays.

Based on a 19th century newspaper article entitled "Murder of an Actress at Naples."

“Murder of an Actress at Naples.” Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle [London, England], 10 January 1836.