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They led him forth, pale, weak, and bent with age;
And though 'twas but the twilight of the dawn,
His eyes, long wont to scan the dungeon's gloom,
From that first glow of orient rose shrank back,
And quivered into darkness. Little heed
To that loud murmur of the whispering crowd,
To pointed finger, telling or of scorn,
Or kindlier wonder, gave he as he went;
And ever, when they called him by his name,
“Coniah, King of Judah,” still he walked
As though he heard not, passed by loftiest towers,
Where Bel's proud temple rears its winding height;
Where wide Euphrates sweeps its lordly flood
By quay and terrace; and the sculptured forms,
Man's face of majesty, and eagle's wings,
And lion's strength, in one strange vision blent,
Guard the great gates, where, hung on terraced slopes,
The rose and myrtle bring to Babel's walls
The brightness and the bloom of Median hills;
And still no look of wonder lit his eye,
No burst of gladness issued from his lips.
Through palace-gates they led him, up the steps
Where porphyry columns prop the marble roofs,
And then to that fair chamber which the king
In pity had assigned him; and they spake,
“Rest here, O prince! The land is glad to-day,
The days of mourning ended! He is gone
Who smote the nations with the scourge of God,
The builder of our city. Many a year
We watched the brooding darkness of his soul,
The madness as of one from whom is gone
His human heart, and all the bestial sense
Usurps dominion; and on every face
There gathered clouds of blackness. Now his reign
Is over. Low in dust that mighty form
Is laid, and on his wondrous throne of gold
Merôdach sits, and nearest at his side
Stands Belteshazzar; and his reign begins
With princely mercy. Lo! from prison dark
He lifts thee up, and bids thee dwell with him,
His guest and friend.”

And so they took their leave.
Long time he sat, and watched the roseate morn
Glow into gold; looked out upon the ships
Weighed low with precious freightage; heard the clang
Of cymbals and of tabrets, as they marched,
The king's Immortals, through the open plain,
Their golden helmets glittering in the sun.
Beneath him lay the queen's fair paradise,
Where Lebanonian cedars flung their shade,
And bright-eyed stags on fresh, green meadows roamed,
And breath of roses scented all the air;
Yet still he sat, as though the prison's chill
Clung round him like a mantle; not the notes
Of martial music, nor the balmy breeze,
Roused him from silence. Then at last there came
Across the river, from the further shore,
Borne by the wind, sweet sound of broken song,
Sad tones of wailing and of low lament
From captive minstrels. Where the willows hang
Their weeping branches o'er the lordly stream,
They mourned o'er Judah, waste and desolate,
The vine uprooted, and the vineyard spoiled,
The Temple plundered, desecrate, destroyed,
The golden pride of fair Jerusalem.
And then the king was moved, and falling tears
Told of re-opened fountains; and there came
The rushing flood of earlier memories,
When from the House, all holy, beautiful,
Such songs rose sweetly, and the hills around
Gave echoes to the winds. One only sound
He heard not now. On Babel's homeless shore
They might not lift their Hallelujah chant,
Nor in that strange land breathe Jehovah's songs.

So passed the hours. That weeping broke the spell
That long had frozen all the springs of life,
And the thick cloud that hung o'er brain and soul
Was touched with gleams of brightness. Still he sat
Through morn and noon, and spake not. Then at eve
They came once more, those eunuchs of the court,
With purple robe and kingly chain of gold,
And bade him rise and follow to the hall
Where great Merôdach sat in revelry,
And blazing cressets, with their golden light,
Mocked the still crimson sunset. Captive kings,
All clad in scarlet, each with chain of gold,
Stood round him, but above them all he placed
The gray-haired exile. And the two who sat
In highest honour at the king's right hand,
(The one great chief of all the seers except,)
Themselves of David's lineage, Meshach wise,
And Abed-nego, gave him welcome there,
And bade him thank the king, to whom he owed
His new-born freedom.

And the king himself,
With priceless goblet from the Temple's stores,
Filled with rare wine from Syria's purpling hills,
Gave him to drink. And then, the spicèd draught
Quickening the pulse, and pouring warmer life
Through vein and nerve, he opened lips long sealed,
And the slow words came trembling:

“Wonder not,
O king, at this my silence. Many a year
Has passed since human voice, in greeting kind,
Has fallen on mine ear. And lo! the song,
The speech, the laugh, bewilder. Send me back
To that dark silence of the lonely cell,
And let me pass away when God shall call,
And lay my bones in peace. If I might ask
One favour, I would pray that thou would'st send,
All swathed in spice, with skill of Egypt's sons,
This poor worn frame, that I at last may sleep
Where sleep my fathers, upon Kidron's slope.”

And then the king made answer, “Nay, not so;
Our reign begins with freedom, mirth, and joy;
Our glory is to open prison doors,
And set the prisoners free. We love to hear
The mourner's thanks, the captive exile's joy.
Therefore make merry. Here thy life is set
In regal chamber, and among the kings
That eat at this my table, none shall be
In higher place than thou. Great David's heir
Deserves this honour.”

“Ah! that name recalls,”
Then spake Coniah, “years of long ago,
When I too reigned, in name at least, a king,
And dwelt in ceilèd houses where the walls
Were bright with scarlet, and the cedarn roof
Glowed in the sunset, and the voice of mirth
Re-echoed loud, and princes bade me trust
In Egypt's power, and prophets chanted still
Their burdens of the fall of Babylon
In two short years, and priests in stately robes
Bade me be sure the Temple of the Lord
Should stand for ever, and great David's throne
Endure through all the ages. And I stand
Unthroned before thee, and the Temple lies
Low in the dust, deserted; and where once
The Lord sat throned between the Cherubim,
Prowl fox and boar, and on the altar-stones
The swallow builds her nest. Ah! one there was,
Whom then we scorned, the seer of Anathoth,
Whose words we little heeded. Now they ring,
Yea, they have rung through all these weary years,
Their knell of doom. And lo! in childless age,
The idol fallen from its lofty shrine,
Despised and broken, all my glory gone,
A man that has not prospered in his days,
I stand before thee. From His own right hand
God plucked the signet where His name was stamped,
And hurled it into darkness. I have learnt
The lesson of the sorrow and the shame,
And through the dimness of the dungeon's gloom
A light has shone around me, and I see
God's way more plainly. Lo! He bringeth down
The souls uplifted in their pride of strength:
My father sinned; the poor and needy came,
The widow and the orphan at his gate
Sat suppliant, all in vain: his years were spent
In one wild revel. And there came on him
Hard doom of exile, over frozen heights
Of Hermon's passes, over scorching sands;
Naked the form once clad in purple robes,
And bare the feet once sandalled daintily,
He, buried with the burial of an ass,
Was cast, I know not whither. Then I came,
Rash, heedless, blind, and dreamt my fevered dreams,
Until the rude awakening. And for thee,
O king, and for thy city, there awaits
Like desolation. Now thy mirth is free,
And all the stir and state that meet the eye
In this rejoicing city glad thine heart;
And thou, the heir of all thy father's fame,
Forgettest all the lesson of his life.
He too looked out upon the golden towers,
The palaces and gardens, and his soul
Was lifted up, and in his mood of pride
Spake madly, “Is not this great Babylon
Which I have builded?” And for that his sin
For five long years he lost his light of life,
The soul that scans the present and the past,
That looks before and after; and he roamed
All haggard, wild and fierce, in open field,
As on him fell the sunshine and the rain,
Or lurked in den or cavern. And I see,
O king! e'en now, as in the northern sky,
The cloud that, rising, spreading, darkening all,
Shall shroud the heaven in blackness, and bring on
The fierce wild whirling of the angry winds,
The floods of many waters! Woe for thee,
If then thy house is built upon the sands!
For lo! there comes—(ask thou the seer who sits
At thy right hand; who, when thy father reigned,
Interpreted his visions;)—lo! there comes
A righteous King, anointed of the Lord,
The Shepherd who shall guide the wandering flock,
And ope the gate, and set the captives free.
From Elam comes he, and in purer faith
Than Nineveh and Babel own as theirs,
Shall bow before the God of earth and heaven,
And be His willing servant. Not for him
Thy sculptured idols and thy marble shrines,
But on the holy heights of mountain-top
He greets the one bright witness of his God,
The sun that walks in glory. Few the years
That yet remain, and then thy kingdom falls,
And, courier meeting courier, one shall tell
His tale of woe, ‘Great Babylon is lost!’
And Judah's sons shall own the heathen king,
And he shall bid them seek their father's home,
And rear again on Zion's holy hill
The temple of their God. I shall not see
That day of gladness; but a little space
Is left me of the weary years of life,
And little reck I whether, turning back
To yonder prison dark and foul, I die,
Unknown, unwept, with none to wail for me:
‘Ah Lord!’ and ‘Ah, his glory!’ or abide
As now, among thy captive princes chief,
In mockery of grandeur. Come what may,
The years have taught their lesson, and mine age
Is wiser than mine youth. I wait the end:
The fear of God rests ever on my soul;
And so my soul is patient. Thou, O king,
Be warned in time!”

He spake; nor did our king,
Merôdach, as we looked for, flash in wrath,
Or kindle into burst of tempest rage,
But first a cloud passed over eye and brow,
And then the wine that sparkled in the gold
He quaffed in haste; and once again his eyes
Were bright and clear, and, reckless in his mirth,
He made his answer—

“Well then, be it so!
While yet we live we make the most of life,
And crown our brows with rosebuds, ere the rose
Be withered by the sunshine or the frost.
We eat and drink, and if to-morrow's dawn
Bring death, we meet it as a king should meet.
Go thou, old man, who bring'st that spectral form
To scare us at our banquets. Go thy way;
We will not harm thee, are not wroth with thee,
Thy prison-life has left on thee its gloom,
And bitter woes have vexed thee. Sleep thy sleep,
Live out thy years. While mighty Babel stands,
Our feasting shall not fail us.”

Then his guards
Once more led out the heir of David's throne.
Slowly and sad he went, nor turned he back,
Nor answer made: but still his long white hair
Flowed round him like a mantle, and he passed
The line of princes to the brazen gates,
His eye lit up with something of the fire
Which speaks of prophet's visions, and his steps
Went onward to the darkness.