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Belshazzar.

BELSHAZZAR is King! Belshazzar is Lord!

And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board;
Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood
Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood:
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,

And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;
And the crowds all shout,

Till the vast roofs ring

"All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

"Bring forth," cries the monarch, "the vessels of gold,
Which my father tore down from the temples of old:
Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown,
To the Gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone;
Bring forth!"—and before him the vessels all shine,
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;
While the trumpets bray,

And the cymbals ring

"Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Now what cometh-look, look!-without menace, or call?
Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall?
What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?
"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!"
They are read-and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!

Hark! the Persian is come

On a conqueror's wing;

And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king!

BARRY CORNWALL.

Cameronian's Dream.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away

To the muirlands of mist, where the martyr host lay,
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone, where the heather grows green.

"Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun, from the east, Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;

On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew

Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath bells, and mountain flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud,

The song of the lark was melodious and loud;

And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers, and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;

Its daughters were happy, to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,

Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,

For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying Concealed 'mong the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying, For the horsemen of Earshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed; With eyes turn'd to heaven in calm resignation,

They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,

The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,

As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

Though in mist, and in darkness, and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded;
Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as firm and unbending
They stood like the rock, which the thunder is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming;
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;

Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,

And its burning wheels turn'd on axles of brightness.