Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Belshazzar's Feast
BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.
'Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam
Of lamps, far-glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream,
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud:—each whispered sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace-bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers;
And the glad city's voice went up from all her towers.
But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band!
High at the stately midnight-festival,
Belshazzar sat enthroned—There luxury's hand
Had showered around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning east;—all gems that pour
The sunbeams back;—all sweets of many a land,
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore;
—But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded more.
With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The Lord of nations spoke,—and forth were brought
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane:
Thrice holy vessels!—pure from earthly stain,
And set apart, and sanctified to Him,
Who deigned within the oracle to reign,
Revealed, yet shadowed; making noon-day dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.
They came, and louder pealed the voice of song,
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling eye,
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion!—Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold,
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old!
Peace!—is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadowed forth the senses to appal,
Yon fearful vision?—Who shall gaze again
To search its cause?—Along the illumined wall,
Startling, yet rivetting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,—a hand, a human hand,
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far distant land.
There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!—the wine, in triumph poured,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth—and lo!
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might,
Trembles before a shadow!— Say not so!
—The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!
But haste ye!—bring Chaldea's gifted seers,
The men of prescience!—haply to their eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.
They come—the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language 'midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to explain.
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!—one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind,
Telling of inward mysteries—joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;
Depths of a being sealed and severed from mankind.
Yes!—what was earth to him, whose spirit passed
Time's utmost bounds?—on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence?—Majesty and might
Were in his dreams;—for him the veil of light
Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th' unutterably bright
Was raised!—to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e'en Thou, mad'st thy dread presence known.
He spoke:—the shadows of the things to come
Passed o'er his soul:—"O King, elate in pride!
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom,
The one, the living God by thee defied!
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'Tis decreed
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide,
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed!
Thy days are full; they come,—the Persian and the Mede!"
There fell a moment's thrilling silence round
A breathless pause! the hush of hearts that beat
And limbs that quiver:—Is there not a sound,
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
—'Twas but some echo, in the crowded street,
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along;—
Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!
Peace yet again!—Hark! steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle-field!
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying,
The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake's burst!—and, blent with these,
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is sealed
In their full mirth!—all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!
And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry!
And lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted train;
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane;
Empire is lost and won,—Belshazzar with the slain.