Poems (Hooper)/The Modern Belshazzar

by Lucy Hamilton Hooper

THE MODERN BELSHAZZAR. PARIS, JULY, 1870.

Fair rose Belshazzar's palace 'neath the sun;
 Those who once entered there, with dazzled eyes
Cried, "Having seen this marvel, naught remains
 To see save Paradise.

"For all enchantments human sense hath known
 Here in one dream of loveliness combine,
We turn from all the other haunts of earth
 To hail this spot divine."

And in that regal hall a feast was set
 And garlands wreathed, and 'neath the golden flame
Of countless torches rose exulting songs
 That hymned Belshazzar's fame.

Pleasure was there, and Luxury and Sin,
 Unhallowed aspirations, lust of pow'r;
These were the guests Belshazzar smiled to greet
 In that triumphal hour.

But lo! the wine his minions poured was red,
 Not with the healthful ruby of the vine;
Dread was the dull opaque that dimmed the cup
 Beneath the torches' shine.

And at Belshazzar's side there sat a shape
 Shadowy, shrouded, terrible to see,
To whom the monarch: "Brother king, this feast
 Is spread to honor thee.

"Behold, I turn from all my other guests,
 Though fair of face and sweet with scented breath,
To bid my slaves pour forth thy fav'rite wine,
 Thou mighty sovereign, Death!"

E'en as he speaks, the lights in sudden flare
 Leap up and vanish in a rayless gloom,
And that which was the banquet hall of kings
 Seems but a mighty tomb.

And o'er the wall, lit by supernal light,
 There stray the fingers of a spectral hand,
Tracing in flaming characters the doom
 That waits the fated land.

And pale Belshazzar totters from his throne,
 An abject, terrified, discrowned thing;
Scepter and crown fall clashing to the floor,
 And Death alone is King!

The songs are hushed, all guests, save one, are fled,
 The spilled wine steals in red streams through the hall;
O'er withered wreath and shattered flagon flames
 The writing on the wall!