The King was on his throne, <br />The Satraps throng'd the hall: <br />A thousand bright lamps shone <br />O'er that high festival. <br />A thousand cups of gold, <br />In Judah deem'd divine-- <br />Jehovah's vessels hold <br />The godless Heathen's wine! <br /> <br />In that same hour and hall, <br />The fingers of a hand <br />Came forth against the wall, <br />And wrote as if on sand: <br />The fingers of a man;-- <br />A solitary hand <br />Along the letters ran, <br />And traced them like a wand. <br /> <br />The monarch saw, and shook, <br />And bade no more rejoice; <br />All bloodless wax'd his look <br />And tremulous his voice. <br />'Let the men of lore appear, <br />The wisest of the earth, <br />And expound the words of fear, <br />Which mar our royal mirth.' <br /> <br />Chaldea's seers are good, <br />But here they have no skill; <br />And the unknown letters stood <br />Untold and awful still. <br />And Babel's men of age <br />Are wise and deep in lore; <br />But now they were not sage, <br />They saw - but knew no more. <br /> <br />A captive in the land, <br />A stranger and a youth, <br />He heard the king's command, <br />He saw that writing's truth. <br />The lamps around were bright, <br />The prophecy in view; <br />He read it on that night, - <br />The morrow proved it true. <br /> <br />'Belshazzar's grave is made, <br />His kingdom pass'd away, <br />He, in the balance weigh'd, <br />Is light and worthless clay; <br />The shroud his robe of state, <br />His canopy the stone: <br />The Mede is at his gate! <br />The Persian on his throne!'<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vision-of-belshazzar/
