Peace!—is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow'd forth the senses to appal,
Yon fearful vision?—Who shall gaze again
To search its cause?—Along the illumin'd wall,
Startling, yet riveting 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,
There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!—the wine, in triumph pour'd,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceas'd to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth—and lo!
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might,
Trembles before a shadow!—Say not so!
—The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight,
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,
