Belshazzar! from the banquet turn, <br />Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; <br />Behold! while yet before thee burn <br />The graven words, the glowing wall. <br />Many a despot men miscall <br />Crown'd and anointed from on high; <br />But thou, the weakest, worst of all <br />Is it not written, thou must die? <br /> <br />Go! dash the roses from thy brow-- <br />Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; <br />Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, <br />More than thy very diadem, <br />Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem: <br />Then throw the worthless bauble by, <br />Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; <br />And learn like better men to die! <br /> <br />Oh! early in the balance weigh'd, <br />And ever light of word and worth, <br />Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, <br />And left thee but a mass of earth. <br />To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: <br />But tears in Hope's averted eye <br />Lament that even thou hadst birth-- <br />Unfit to govern, live, or die.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-belshazzar/
