The joy and glory of the skies With radiance fill her heavenly eyes, Where thornless flowers around her rise, And founts that ne'er shall fail; While here her form so lowly lies All silent, cold and pale; Where dews distil, and night-winds chill Moan through the shadowy vale. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AFTER THE LINES OF A DECEASED FRIEND. Close to the lines that her dear hand had traced, Who took so soon an angel's form on high-- After her name is my memorial placed For thee, my friend, and it shall tell thee why. I find a sweetness where her spirit breathed: A sacred halo round her name is thrown; So, with the flowers that here her fingers wreathed To borrow life from them, I twine my own. Fresh in thy heart and mine her memory lives, Fragrant and fair, and thornless in its bloom: Here with the precious odor that it gives, I fain my simple offering would perfume. Then, whatsoe'er the change that comes to me-- Though death or duty put me far away, These silent leaves may still unfold to thee The wish of one who was thy friend to-day. Peace be to thee--long life, and joy, and health The blest allotment of thy sojourn here; The portion of a child of God, thy wealth, When time must close, and earth shall disappear! THE SOVEREIGN OF BABYLON. The monarch has opened his banqueting hall For his thousand lords, and his ladies all! The sparkling wine to each guest is poured, And mirth swells high at the festal board, Where none hath the heart more careless and light, Than he, whose glory must end to-night. With the cup and the revel the king grows bold-- He calls for the vessels of silver and gold; The spoils his idolatrous father brought, 'Mid the impious deeds which that proud one wrought, From the temple of God, at Jerusalem, That he and his nobles may drink from them. Each sacred vessel they fill and raise To a laughing lip, as it speaks the praise Of the gods of metal, of wood and stone, But mocks at the name of the Holy One, Whose finger this hour shall come so near:-- That lip will quiver and blanch with fear. Monarch! what's there, on the lighted wall, That can fix thy gaze and thy spirit appall? Why is thy countenance changed, O king? Is it one of thy gods this awe can bring, Which makes thy knees together to smite, Thine eye so wild, and thy cheek so white? "A hand! a hand! it hath written a line! And who will the terrible words define? A chain of gold shall encircle his neck-- A vesture of scarlet his form shall deck-- And the third, as ruler, shall be that seer, With honor and power throughout Chaldea!"