 | Eclogues and monodramas |  |
Why have ye led me to this impious hall?
Thy face, O King, is altered from the joy
Of feasting, and thy mighty ones no more
Carouse, but mutely tremble: blank their eyes
As yonder idiot faces carved in stone
For worship. Hath God spoken at the last?
Patient too long, O God, thou speakest now
To trace a flaming sentence on the wall
Full in the staring of those idols' eyes.
The secret words, O King, thou canst not read,
Nor find interpretation of their fear.
If I declare the writing it shall make
Your feast as dust before you: yonder wine
Shall burn your lips as poison from the cups
Of hallowed gold, whose desecrated use
Hath drawn a vengeance from the eternal King
Of angels down.
Thy face, O King, is altered from the joy
Of feasting, and thy mighty ones no more
Carouse, but mutely tremble: blank their eyes
As yonder idiot faces carved in stone
For worship. Hath God spoken at the last?
Patient too long, O God, thou speakest now
To trace a flaming sentence on the wall
Full in the staring of those idols' eyes.
The secret words, O King, thou canst not read,
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If I declare the writing it shall make
Your feast as dust before you: yonder wine
Shall burn your lips as poison from the cups
Of hallowed gold, whose desecrated use
Hath drawn a vengeance from the eternal King
Of angels down.
Why should I read alone?
Where are thy wise Chaldeans? Theirs the craft
To read the faces of the silent stars,
Assuring smooth dominion to thy pride:
They change the map of the eternal heaven
Into a lying oracle. Behold
The writing: let them read it: there is store
Of gold and purple for their ready lies,
At such a needful time why are they dumb?
Or, if these fail, make incense to your gods,
Sweet odours, more libation: in your hour
Of prosperous feast they heard your hymns of praise;
And now they must requite their worshippers
For adoration: surely they can save,
For they are gods indeed, not wood or stone.
Where are thy wise Chaldeans? Theirs the craft
To read the faces of the silent stars,
Assuring smooth dominion to thy pride:
They change the map of the eternal heaven
Into a lying oracle. Behold
The writing: let them read it: there is store
Of gold and purple for their ready lies,
At such a needful time why are they dumb?
Or, if these fail, make incense to your gods,
Sweet odours, more libation: in your hour
Of prosperous feast they heard your hymns of praise;
And now they must requite their worshippers
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For they are gods indeed, not wood or stone.
| Eclogues and monodramas | |