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There rose no day, there rolld no hour

Of pleasure unembitter'd;
And not a trapping deck'd my power

That gall’d not while it glitter'd.


The serpent of the field, by art

And spells, is won from harming ;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming?

It will not list to wisdom's lore,

Nor music's voice can lure it;
But there it stings for evermore

The soul that must endure it.



When coldness wraps this suffering clay,

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.

Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way? Or fill at once the realms of space,

A thing of eyes, that all survey ?


Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,

A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies display'd,

Shall it survey, shall it recal:
Each fainter trace that memory holds

So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,

And all, that was, at once appears.


Before creation peopled earth,

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; And where the furthest heaven had birth,

The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes,

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks,

Fix'd in its own eternity,


Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,

It lives all passionless and pure: An age

shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing,

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.



The King was on his throne,

The Satraps thronged the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone

O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deem'd divine-
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless Heathen's wine!


In that same hour and hall,

. The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall,

And wrote as if on sand :

The fingers of a man:

A solitary hand Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.


The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look,

And tremulous his voice. « Let the men of lore appear,

6. The wisest of the earth, “And expound the words of fear,

“Which mar our royal mirth.”


Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood

Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage,

They saw-but knew no more.


A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,

He saw that writing's truth.

The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,-

The morrow proved it true.



“Belshazzar's grave is made,

“ His kingdom pass'd away, “ He, in the balance weigh’d,

“ Is light and worthless clay. “ The shroud, his robe of state,

“ His canopy the stone; “ The Mede is at his gate!

" The Persian on his throne !"


Son of the sleepless ! melancholy star !
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh how cold!

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