But where is Belshazzar the Lord? Has he fled? Has he found an asylum? Or still does he pace in his palace, blind-seeming or moonstruck? Still does he tread proudly the palace, fancy-deluded, Prophets of falsehood trusting, or false Babylonian idols, Defying the odious truth from the summit of empire! Lo! at his palace gates the fierce Apollyon's great army, With maces uplifted, stand to make way for great Cyrus of Elam. Watching for signal from him whose truncheon this way or that bids: 'Strike!' said Cyrus the King. 'Strike!' said the princes of Elam; And the brazen gates at the word, like flax that is broken asunder By fire from earth or from heaven, snapped as a bulrush, Snapped as a reed, as a wand, as the tiny toy of an infant. Marvellous the sight that followed! Oh, most august revelation! Mile-long were the halls that appeared, and open spaces enormous; Areas fit to hold armies on the day of muster for battle; Hosts upon either side, for amplest castrametation. Depth behind depth, and dim labyrinthine apartments. Golden galleries above running high into darkening vistas, Staircases soaring and climbing, till sight grew dizzy with effort Of chasing the corridors up to their whispering gloomy recesses. Nations were ranged in the halls, nations ranged at a banquet, Even then lightly proceeding with timbrel, dulcimer, hautboy, Gong and loud kettledrum and fierce-blown tempestuous organ. Banners floated in air, colossal embroidery tissues Of Tyrian looms, scarlet, black, violet and amber, Or the perfectest cunning of trained Babylonian artist, Or massy embossed, from the volant shuttle of Phrygian. Banners suspended in shade, or in the full glare of the lamplight, Mid cressets and chandeliers by jewelly chains swinging pendant. * * * * * Draw a veil o'er the rout when advances great Cyrus of Elam, Dusky-browed archers behind him, and spearmen before, When he cries 'Strike!' and the gorgeously inlaid pavements Run ruddy with blood of the festive Assyrians there.