As when the King of old
‘ Mid Babylonian gold,
And picture-woven walls, and lamps that gleam'd
Unholy radiance, sate,
And with some smooth slave-mate
Toy'd, and the wine laugh'd round, and music stream'd
Voluptuous undulation, o'er the hall,—
Till on the palace-wall
Forth came a hand divine
And wrote the judgment-sign,
And Babylon fell!— So now, in that his place
Of Tudor-Stuart pride,
The golden gallery wide,
‘ Mid venal beauty's lavish-arm'd embrace,
And hills of gambler-gold, a godless King
Moved through the revelling
With quick brown falcon-eye
And lips of gay reply;
Wise in the wisdom not from Heaven!— as one
Who from his exile-days
Had learn'd to scorn the praise
Of truth, the crown by martyr-virtue won:
Below ambition:— Grant him regal ease!
The rest, as fate may please!
— O royal heir, restored
Not by the bitter sword,
But when the heart of these great realms in free,
Full, triple, unison beat
The Martyr's son to greet,
Her ancient law and faith and flag with thee
Rethroned,— not thus!— in this inglorious hall
Of harem-festival,
Not thus!— For even now,
The blaze is on thy brow
Scored by the shadowy hand of him whose wing
Knows neither haste nor rest;
Who from the board each guest
In season calling,— knight and kerne and king,—
Where Arthur lies, and Alfred, signs the way;—
— We know him, and obey.