The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird Fifth Edition: With a Memoir by the Rev. Jardine Wallace |
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The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird | ||
Come to the Banquet! Lift your dazzled eyes,
Survey the glory that before you lies!
Far down yon avenue of fainting light,
The dim dance swims away upon the sight.
Behold the central feast! Behold the wine
Around in brimming undulations shine,
As shakes the joyous board! There Beauty sips
The purple glimmer with her murmuring lips;
For there the rose-crowned concubines are set,
For there the nymphs of Babylon are met,
Each one a princess: Their illumined eyes
Glitter with laughter, glance with coy surprise;
And aye the love-sick dulcimer is played,
Till faintly languishes each melting maid.
Here peaceful satraps quaff: their lordly breasts
Built out with gladness, sit the chosen guests.
And there the Prince: But oft he looks around,
And seems to listen for some coming sound.
Fear in his heart; each bowl, each golden cup
With blood, for wine, to him seems welling up,
Smote by the light of that branched candlestick:
These Holy Vessels well may make him sick,
Torn from Jehovah's Courts with impious hands,
To light the unhallowed feasts of Heathen lands.
Survey the glory that before you lies!
Far down yon avenue of fainting light,
The dim dance swims away upon the sight.
Behold the central feast! Behold the wine
Around in brimming undulations shine,
As shakes the joyous board! There Beauty sips
The purple glimmer with her murmuring lips;
For there the rose-crowned concubines are set,
For there the nymphs of Babylon are met,
Each one a princess: Their illumined eyes
Glitter with laughter, glance with coy surprise;
And aye the love-sick dulcimer is played,
Till faintly languishes each melting maid.
Here peaceful satraps quaff: their lordly breasts
Built out with gladness, sit the chosen guests.
And there the Prince: But oft he looks around,
And seems to listen for some coming sound.
Fear in his heart; each bowl, each golden cup
With blood, for wine, to him seems welling up,
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These Holy Vessels well may make him sick,
Torn from Jehovah's Courts with impious hands,
To light the unhallowed feasts of Heathen lands.
The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird | ||