THAT voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s glory Fails in the vast immensity of night, As fails all earthly praise of Him who hears The ceaseless acclamation of the stars. What needs there more?--the apple of the world, Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap, And all the gods of Babylon, well pleased With blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things, Even while I take mine ease, attend on me: The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine, And in the plains climb the big sycamores; My camels and my laden dromedaries Move in from eastward bearing odorous gums, And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams, Even tall cedars out of Lebanon; Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down, And all great Babylon is filled with spoil. Wherefore, upon the summit of the world, The utmost apex of this thronèd realm, I stand, as stands the driving charioteer, And steer my course right onward toward the stars. Mean-fated men my horses trample under, And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers, And smoothly my wheels run upon the necks Of babes and sucklings,--while I hold my way, Serene, supreme, secure in destiny, Because the gods perceive mine excellence, And entertain for mine imperial Person Peculiar favours.... I am Babylon: Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes.
_Babylon is fallen, fallen,_ _And never shall be known again!_ _Drunken with the blood of my belovèd,_ _And trampling on the sons of men._ _But God is awake and aware of thee,_ _And sharply shines His sword,_ _Where over the earth spring suddenly_ _The hidden hosts of the Lord;_ _Armies of right and of righteousness,_ _Huge hosts, unseen, unknown:_ _And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory,_ _Where the wind goes, they are gone._
Unnatural foliage pales the trees, Frost in compassion of their death Has kissed them, and his icy breath Proclaims and silvers their election. Death, wert thou beautiful as these, We scarce would pray for resurrection.
Proud Eastern Queene, Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall. What need of gems To deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside. Thy own dead loveliness outshines the pride Of diadems.
O splendid hearte, Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest not Comfort of me. What matter though the body be uncouthe Wherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truth Who gave it thee.