Press'd his warm lips upon the marble brow, And chafed the infant limbs.
'Tis done! - behold, the sleeping child awakes, And sweetly smiles upon the holy man! And lo! the weeping mother clasps her boy Again, redeem'd from the embrace of death, And strains him to her throbbing heart, as though She fear'd the ruthless tyrant yet once more Might snatch him from her arms! While the dread prophet stands aloof from all, And views the object of his fervent prayer Restored again to love, and light, and life!
THROUGH proud Belshazzar's lofty halls A wavering light is streaming, And o'er his heaven-defying walls, The blaze of torches gleaming. Hark! the voice of music breaks Softly on the midnight air, Each boisterous shout of laughter speaks Of hearts untouch'd by woe or care.
The sounds of joy harmonious floating O'er Euphrates' silver tide, Which flows in ripples, gently passing Near many a tower of stately pride. With mirth, Belshazzar's halls resound, Joy spreads each smiling feature o'er, And laughing hundreds gather round The red libations, as they pour
From silver cup, and golden urn, Once mantling with the holy wine, By impious hands in frenzy torn From great Jehovah's sacred shrine. Surrounded by each smiling guest, In regal pomp and splendid state, With all save God's approval blest, The warrior king serenely sate.
Their hearts demoniac pleasure found, Exulting triumph swell'd their strain, While Israel's children, captive, bound, Were groaning 'neath their weight of pain : Bright lamps o'erhung the festive scene, Diffusing soften'd brilliance round, While mocking Israel's mighty Lord, They dash'd his wine-cups to the ground.
Why does Belshazzar's lip turn pale? Why shrinks his form with trembling fear? Why fades, within his tiger eye, The scornful glance, the taunting sneer? A shadowy cloud o'erhangs the wall, A mighty hand each fold reveals ! There's silence in that princely hall, And trembling awe each vein congeals.
The mystic fingers darkly move,
And words unknown in silence trace; Wide o'er the illumined walls they spread, While horror fills each pallid face! Oh! who those awful words may read, Or who their mighty import tell? What hand perform'd the fearful deed, What tongue may break the magic spell!
Come forth, ye Chaldean seers! come forth, Ye men of Egypt's burning soil! Let the dread words your thoughts employ, And be the object of your toil! Oh, gaze upon the glowing wall! Ha! proud magicians, do ye shrink? Say, does the sight your hearts appal As if on death's terrific brink?
Now, strive to win the golden crown, The scarlet robe, the badge of power- And tell if heaven in justice frown, If round your king the tempest lower. But still they shrink with innate fear, Still from the awful scene retire; While trembling lips proclaim their awe, And rouse the monarch's fiercest ire.
Who may the characters explain, When Chaldea's ancient sages fail? Must the dread secret thus remain Wrapt in its dark mysterious veil ? Come forth, thou man of God, come forth. By heaven beloved, by man reviled, Robed in the mantle of thy faith, Come forth, Jehovah's chosen child! Fear not to read Belshazzar's fate!
Thy heavenly Father guides thee still ! Though robed in scarlet, throned in state, Thy God can mould him at his will.
Oh, mark his firm, majestic mien ! Oh, mark his broad and lofty brow! With soften'd courage, calın, serene, And flush'd with conscious virtue's glow.
Well might they shrink before the man, Whose gaze had reach'd the realms of bliss, Whose eye had pierced a brighter world, Whose spotless soul had soar'd from this.
Oh, hark! his firm and manly voice
Is heard within that princely hall; No more the impious crowds rejoice, But thrilling silence spreads o'er all. "Oh king! in wealth, and pride, and power, At God's great footstool humbly fall, That God hath seal'd thy doom this hour, 'Tis stamp'd on yonder fated wall. "Thy stubborn knee was never bent, Thy earthly heart was humbled never Before the throne of Israel's God, Of life, of breath, of power the giver. Against the Lord of heaven thy hand In bold impiety is raised, And vessels sacred to his name
The feasts of idol gods have graced.
He, in whose balance lords of earth With justice, mercy, power, are tried, Hath weigh'd thine errors and thy worth, But virtue is o'ercome by pride. From death thou art no longer free, Thy sun of glory shall decline; The golden crown no more shall bind That proud, ambitious brow of thine.
"The Medes and Persians shall possess That which so lately was thine own; God will e'en now our wrongs redress, And hurl thee from thy tottering throne." He ceased, an awful silence reign'd, And chain'd each scarcely throbbing breast. Where were the passions once so rude?- Lull'd by the prophet's voice to rest?
Gaze on Belshazzar's pallid brow, And trace the livid horror there; Big drops o'erhang its surface now, And backward starts the clustering hair; His eyeballs strain'd, and wildly staring Upon the spot which bears his doom, Seem like a frighted lion glaring
Through the dark forest's lonely gloom.
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Euphrates' waves are brightly sparkling Beneath Aurora's rosy beam, As though the night had never darken'd Above its broad and rapid stream. The close of evening view'd it smiling, Deck'd with barks and forms of light, The weary moments still beguiling, Sporting on its bosom bright. Where are all its beauties banish'd? Why its banks so lone and still? Have all its pride and glory vanish'd, All save desolation chill ?
The Mede and Persian have been here, Heaven's just vengeance to fulfil; Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, God has wrought his sovereign will.
TO MY MOTHER ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
WHEN last this morning brightly shone Around my youthful head, Inspiring love and joy and glee, Dismissing fear and dread,
I thought not I should see thee here Reclining on thy Margaret's breast; I thought that in a brighter sphere Thy weary soul would sweetly rest. But since the mighty God above Has granted this my fervent prayer, My heart is fill'd with joy and love For all his kindness and his care.
Oh, may his guardian wings o'erspread, To guard from sorrow, pain, or harm, My mother's weary aching head, And every rising fear disarm.
May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, And fill with peace thy beating heart, And may the feast which love prepares A sweet security impart.
When He, who warm'd thy gentle soul, And planted every virtue there, Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss, And free from earthly sin and care,
Oh, may a daughter's tender hand The pillow of affliction smooth, Teach every grief to lose its pang, And every sorrow fondly soothe.
ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA.
Он, if a painter's touch can form thee thus, So bright with all an artist's hand can give, How passing beautiful those scenes must be, Which here inanimate, there sweetly live! Each verdant shrub, which here inactive bends, So gently waving o'er the placid stream, And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, Reflecting back the sun's effulgent beam. Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, And see yon crumbling fort, with moss o'ergrown, O'er whose high walls the weeping willow bends.
Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, Lake Leman, placid, beautiful, and fair, So gently murmuring, as it flows along, Of peace and happiness implanted there. And towering far above, the mighty Alps Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime, Each snow-capp'd summit mingling with the clouds, Seems to defy the ravages of time.
It seems as though the glowing canvass moved, Each figure fill'd with life and joy and love,
As if the dark blue waters at my feet
Would break the chain which binds them there, and move.
Each hill, each rock seem bursting into life,
The painter mock'd reality so well;
It seems as if those shadowy forms would speak, Could they but break the artist's magic spell.
THE FUNERAL BELL.
HARK! the loudly pealing bell
Rises on the morning air; Its tones subdued and sadly swell, For death, unpitying death is there!- Hark! again it peals aloud, Bearing sorrow on its tone; While from the sad assembled crowd, Is heard the echoing sob and groan,
Yes, in that solemn note is heard
A voice proclaiming woe and death; A voice which tells of endless time, Of sorrow's desolating breath.
To the warm fancy it would say,
In words which strike the heart with fear;
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