| |
(From Ruins of Many Lands)
’T WAS here, beneath this dark and silent mound, | |
| Where ages heap their nameless wrecks around, | |
| That he, the last great king, before his fall, | |
| Spread his famed feast, and lit his gorgeous hall. | |
| Oh, ne’er in Babylon did blaze a sight | 5 |
| More richly grand, magnificently bright! | |
| Bearing his crown, and dressed in robe of state, | |
| High on his throne of gold Belshazzar sate. | |
| In shining robes, and stretching far away, | |
| Like billows quivering ’neath the sunset ray, | 10 |
| Chiefs, nobles stood, the red lamps flashing o’er | |
| The golden chains and purple robes they wore; | |
| In gilded galleries damsels, too, were seen, | |
| Like night thick-set with stars, their jewels’ sheen, | |
| With rose-crowned locks, white hands, and radiant eyes, | 15 |
| Too fair for earth, too earthly for the skies. | |
| |
| The banquet speeds; the harp and psaltery sound, | |
| And all is splendor, joy, enchantment round. | |
| Wreathed with rich flowers, and crowned with rosy wine, | |
| The golden cups from Salem’s Temple shine. | 20 |
| Joined by his chiefs, the exulting monarch drinks, | |
| Nor at thy voice, condemning conscience! shrinks, | |
| But mocks the Hebrews’ God, and, with vain boast, | |
| Extols their Bel, and Heaven’s unnumbered host. | |
| ’T was then, while pleasure held each heart in thrall, | 25 |
| A sudden light illumed the pillared hall; | |
| No lamp, no earthly fire, could pour such beams,— | |
| From sun or comet no such splendor streams. | |
| Up sprang the king, and backward swayed the crowd | |
| Mute was the harp, and hushed their laughter loud. | 30 |
| See! where in flame, yet dazzling, strong and clear, | |
| That shadowy hand doth trace its words of fear! | |
| It writes!—the king still stands with lips apart, | |
| While terror’s thrill runs shivering to his heart; | |
| It writes!—and all veil there, in dread amaze, | 35 |
| Their dazzled eyes from that portentous blaze! | |
| |
| No sage was found to read those words of flame, | |
| Till he, the exile, Salem’s prophet came. | |
| He stood before them all, with noble mien, | |
| Bold as unshrinking, lofty as serene. | 40 |
| Age marked his brow, but in his deep clear eye | |
| Still burned the fire of glorious days gone by. | |
| So hushed each voice, that hall appeared a tomb,— | |
| He stretched his hand, and spoke the monarch’s doom! | |
| Yes, on that night the foe, whose hosts in vain | 45 |
| Had fought so long those stately towers to gain, | |
| Bowed deep Euphrates from his wonted course, | |
| Poured to the city’s heart with whirlwind force, | |
| Slew the last king,—Assyria’s rule was o’er! | |
| And Babylon, the mighty, was no more! | 50 |
| |
