"Bring forth," cries the monarch, "the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old; Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine, While the trumpets bray and the cymbals ring,"Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Now what cometh-look, look!-without menace or call?

Who writes with the lightning's bright hand on the wall?

What pierceth the king like the point of a dart? What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his! heart?

"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!"

They are read, and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!
Hark! The Persian is come on a conqueror's wing;
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king...
BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.
(Barry Cornwall).

Daniel

IMPERIAL Persia bowed to his wise sway-
A hundred provinces his daily care;

A queenly city with its gardens fair
Smiled round him-but his heart was far away,
Forsaking pomp and power "three times a day."
For chamber lone, he seeks his solace there;
Through windows opening westward floats his prayer
Towards the dear distance where Jerusalem lay,
So let me morn, noon, evening, steal aside

And shutting my heart's door to earth's vain pleasure And manifold solicitudes, find leisure 1

The windows of my soul to open wide

Towards that blest city and that heavenly treasure Which past these visible horizons hide.

RICHARD WILTON.

Vision of Belshazzar

THE King was on his throne,

The Satraps throng'd the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deem'd divineJehovah's vessels hold

The godless Heathen's wine.

In that same hour and hall
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man;—
A solitary hand

Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.”

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still.

And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore;'

But now they were not sage;
They saw-but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night—
The morrow proved it true!

"Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He, in the balance weigh'd,
Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;

The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne!"

LORD BYRON.

Babylon

THOU glory of a thousand kings,
Proud daughter of the East!
That dwellest as on sea-birds' wings,
Upon Euphrates' breast;

As lofty as thy pride of old,

So deep shall be thy doom;
Thy wealth is fled, thy days are told,
Awake! thine end is come!

A sound of war is in the lands!
A sword is on thy host!

Thy princes and their mighty bands-
The Lord shall mock their boast!
His Hand has rein'd the rushing steed,
And quell'd the rage of war;

Shall stay the flying lance's speed
And burn the whirling car.

Set ye the standard in the lands;
The Lord of Hosts hath said,
Bid trumpets rouse the distant bands
Of Persia and the Mede;

The bucklers bring, make bright the dart,
I lead thee forth to war,

To burst the gates of brass apart

And break the iron bar!

The spoiler's hand is come upon
Thy valiant men of might,
Their lion hearts, proud Babylon,
Have failed thee in the fight;
Thy cities are all desolate,

Thy lofty gates shall fall,

The hand that wrought Gomorrah's fate
Shall crush thy mighty wall.

The shepherd shall not fold his flocks
Upon the desert plain,

But, lurking in thy cavern'd rocks,
The forest beast shall reign.

Fair Babylon, Lost Babylon!

Sit in the dust and mourn,

Hurled headlong from thy lofty throne

Forgotten and forlorn!

ANONYMOUS.

Он

Herod's Lament for Mariamne

OH, Mariamne! now for thee,

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding;

Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding.

Oh! Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:

Ah! couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.

And is she dead, and did they dare
Obey my frenzy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair:
The sword that smote her o'er me waving.
But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

She's gone, who shar'd my diadem;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah's stem,
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;

And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!

LORD BYRON.

THE

The Ark of the Covenant

'HERE is a legend full of joy and pain, An old tradition told of former years, When Israel built the Temple once again And stayed his tears.

'Twas in the chamber where the Wood Pile lay, The logs wherewith the altar's flame was fed; There hope recalled the Light of vanished day, The Light long fled.

A priest moved slowly o'er the marble floor,
Sorting the fuel in the chamber stored;
Frail was his form;-he ministered no more
Before the Lord.