He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And lingering gaze toward his distant home;
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

55

60

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light, And social converse cheers the livelong night, Thus spake Zorobabel: "Too long in vain For Zion desolate her sons complain ;

All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,

65

And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe.
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

"Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And sternly silent shun to seek relief?
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?"

"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, "Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried.

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75

80

And while the courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine

85

To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine."

"And while," his friend rejoin'd, " in state alone, Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne,

Be

yours

the mighty power of Wine to sing, My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King." 90

To them Zorobabel: "On themes like these
Seek
ye
the Monarch of Mankind to please;
To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms,
Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.
To him victorious in the rival lays

Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
A purple robe his honour'd frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;
A golden couch support his bed of rest,

95

The chain of honour grace his favour'd breast; 100 His the rich turban, his the car's array,

On Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;

And for his wisdom seated on the throne,

For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known."

Intent they meditate the future lay,

And watch impatient for the dawn of day.

105

The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute, The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;

To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,

Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court.

High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,
The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side:
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown
Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,
Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call

Judæa's Bards to grace the thronging hall.

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115

Hush'd are all sounds, the attending crowd are mute, And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute: 120

When the Traveller on his way,
Who has toil'd the livelong day,
Feels around on every side

The chilly mists of eventide,

Fatigued and faint his

weary

mind

Recurs to all he leaves behind;

He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,

125

And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.

When the poor man heart-opprest Betakes him to his evening rest,

135

And worn with labour thinks in sorrow
On the labour of to-morrow;

When repining at his lot

140

The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude;

Feels that the multitude below
Depend on him for weal or woe;

When his powerful will may bless

170

A realm with peace and happiness,

Or with desolating breath

Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death;

Oh give to him the flowing bowl!

175

Bid it humanize his soul !

He shall not feel the empire's weight,

He shall not feel the cares of state,

The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

180

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song, Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; All tongues the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

Why should the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight?
Alike to him if peace shall bless
The multitude with happiness;
Alike to him if frenzied War

Career triumphant on the embattled plain,
And rolling on o'er myriads slain,

With

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190

195

gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. What though the tempest rage? no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne; And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the crown.