Startling, yet rivetting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,—a hand, a human hand,
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far distant land.
There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!—the goblet, richly stor'd,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceas'd to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth,—and lo!
The king of men, the monarch, rob'd with might,
Trembles before a shadow!—say not so!
The child of dust, with guilt's prophetic sight,
Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenging Infinite.
But haste ye!—bring Chaldea's gifted seers,
The men of prescience!—haply to their eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.
They come,—the readers of the midnight skies,
They that give voice to visions!—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies;
It hath no language midst the starry train;
There is no earthly voice heaven's mysteries to explain.
