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The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,-
The morrow proved it true.

6.

"Belshazzar's grave is made, "His kingdom pass'd away, "He, in the balance weigh'd, "Is light and worthless clay. "The shroud his robe of state, "His canopy the stone; "The Mede is at his gate,

"The Persian on his throne!"

8

SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!

SUN of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh, how cold!

WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST IT TO BE.

WERE

1.

my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee;

It was but abjuring my creed, to efface

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.

2.

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin, then thou art spotless and free?
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high,

Live on in thy faith; but in mine I will die.

3.

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; In His hand is my heart and my hope—and in thine The land and the life which for Him I resign.

HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.

1.

Он, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding.

Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,
Though Heav'n were to my prayer unheeding.

2.

And is she dead?—and did they dare
Obey my phrenzy's jealous raving?

My wrath but doom'd my own despair:

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.

But thou art cold, my murder'd love!

And this dark heart is vainly craving

For her who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

1

3.

She's gone, who shar'd my diadem ;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flow'r from Judah's stem,
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;

And I have earn'd those tortures well,

Which unconsum'd are still consuming!

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