THE midnight hour was drawing on; Flushed in repose lay Babylon; But in the palace of the king The herd of courtiers shout and sing. There, in his royal banquet hall, Belshazzar holds high festival.

The servants sit in glittering rows, The beakers are drained, the red wine flows; The beakers clash and the servants sing,— A pleasing sound to the moody king. The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine, His spirit waxes bold with wine, Until, by maddening passion stung, He scoffs at God with impious tongue; And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves, ’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves. He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame! The ready servants went and came; Vessels of massive gold they bore, Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store.

Then seizing a consecrated cup, The king in his fury fills it up; He fills, and hastily drains it dry; From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry, “Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling! I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.” Yet scarce had the impious words been said, When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread; Suddenly died the shout and yell, A deathlike hush on the tumult fell.

And see! and see! on the white wall high The form of a hand went slowly by, And wrote—and wrote in sight of all Letters of fire upon the wall! The king sat still, with a stony look, His trembling knees with terror shook; The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred; Fear froze the blood,—no sound was heard.

The magicians came, but none of all Could read the writing on the wall. At length to solve those words of flame, Fearless, but meek, the prophet came. One glance he gave, and all was clear. “King! there is reason in thy fear. Those words proclaim, thy empire ends, The day of woe and wrath impends. Weighed in the balance, wanting found, Thou and thy empire strike the ground!”

That night, by the servants of his train, Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain!