Classic Poem

The midnight hour was drawing nigh;
Babylon slumbered silently.

But in the palace of the King
Was flaring light and rioting.

Aloft there in the monarch's hall
Belshazzar held high festival.

His minions sat in gleaming line
And drained the cups of sparkling wine.

The goblets clashed, the varlets roared,
Such tumult pleased their braggart Lord!

The King's cheeks flame as red as blood,
And wine hath made him bold of mood,

And blindly urges him along
To blaspheme God with impious tongue.

He stood erect, blaspheming loud;-
Applause rang from the servile crowd.

He shouted with a glance that burned,
And a slave sped forth and quick returned.

On his head he bore a precious load
Robbed from the temple-shrine of God.

The King snatched recklessly from him
A sacred cup full to the brim.

To the last drop the cup did he drain,
And shouted with foaming mouth again:

" Jehovah, at thee contempt I fling,
And I in Babylon am King. "

But scarce was the daring taunt expressed
Ere secret terror filled the King's breast.

The strident laughter died away;
Over all a death-like silence lay.

And see! and see! on the wall above,
A ghostly hand began to move.

And it wrote and wrote the white wall upon,
Letters of flame it wrote — and was gone.

The King sate there with rigid look,
Pallid as death, with knees that shook.

The courtiers sat in chill dismay,
Silent they sate — no sound made they.

The Magi came, but none of them all
Could read the warning upon the wall.

And ere the morning broke again
By his own slaves was Belshazzar slain.