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.1
As originally written, the following additional stanzas (afterwards omitted) concluded this poem,
Fallen is the golden city!-in the dust,
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state,
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust,
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate !
She that beheld the nations at her gate,
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more
Lady of kingdoms. Who shall mourn her fate?
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er-
What widowed land shall now her widowhood deplore?
Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned
On many waters!-thou, whose augurs read
The language of the planets, and disowned
The Mighty Name it blazons !-veil thy head,
Daughter of Babylon!--the sword is red
From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke
Is on thee, O most proud!- for thou hast said,
"I am, and none beside!" The Eternal spoke :
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!
But go thou forth, O Israel !-wake! rejoice!
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day!
Renew the sound of harps, the exulting voice,
The mirth of timbrels !-loose the chain, and say
God hath redeemed His people !-from decay
The silent and the trampled shall arise!
-Awake!-put on thy beautiful array,
O long-forsaken Zion!-to the skies
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!
And lift thy head!-Behold thy sons returning,
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain,
Light hath revisited the house of mourning:
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain,
Because her children were not-dwells again,
Girt with the lovely!-through thy streets, once more,
City of God! shall pass the bridal train,
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour,
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore!
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk;
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears.
But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus stationed as I am, I will do all
That man may do."
MISS BAILLIE'S Constantine Palæologus.
THE fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ;
--Shout, for the city of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross !-great ocean's bride,
Crowned with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Poured by the burning East, all joyously and fast.
Long ages past!—they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broidered her mantle, and her castled walls
Frowned in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmured if a rose-leaf's fold
Disturbed her dreams; and called her slaves to keep
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o'er the deep.
But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude;
"Tis not alone the wind, at midnight swelling,
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury wooed!
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows,
And darker hues have stained the marble, strewed
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose,
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.
A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar
Through Ida's giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempé's haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er
The indignant wave, which would not be controlled,
But past the Persian's chain in boundless freedom rolled.
And it is thus again !-Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are passed Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep, O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.
War from the West !-the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath; yet o'er the lands
Which Hamus girds, the chainless mountain rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!-'midst Araby's lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands
Against the Golden City of the sea :
-Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!
Hear yet again, ye mighty!—Where are they,
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crowned,
Leaped up, in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia's clarion ?-Far and joyous round,
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows,
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at freedom's voice they rose !
-Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's repose?
They slumber with their swords!-The olive-shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.
--Yet must Thou wake, though all unarmed and pale,
Devoted City-Lo! the Moselm's spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
-Awake! and summon those, who yet, perchance, may hear!
Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping:
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales !-The sons of each brave line,
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's shrine,
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine !
All still, all voiceless!— and the billow's roar Alone replies!-Alike their soul is gone Who shared the funeral feast on Eta's shore, And theirs that o'er the field of Ascalon Swelled the crusader's hymn !-Then gird thou on Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is done With a strong heart; so may thy helmet tower Unshivered through the storm, for generous hope is power!
But linger not,-array thy men of might!
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes.
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright,
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,
Around thy walls the sons of battle close;
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to hear!
Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high!
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade!
Snatch every brief delight,-since we must die !—
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by,
For feast in vine-wreathed bower, or pillared hall;
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