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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 divine

Jehovah'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 weighed,

Is light and worthless clay. « The shroud, his robe of state,

“ His canopy, the stone; • The Mede is at his gate!

6 The Persian on his throne !

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