Who is that fellow crying by the river?
I think I heard him lift his voice in praise
Of Babylon: some minstrelle seeking hire:
I need him not to tell me who I am,
For I am Baladan of Babylon.
The splendours of my sceptre, throne, and crown,
And all the awe that fills my royal halls,
The pomp that heralds me, the shout that follows,
Are flying shadows and reflections only
From the wide dazzlings of myself, the King.
This I conceive: and yet, we kings have labour
To apprehend ourselves imperially,
And see the blaze and lightnings of our person;
The thought of their own sovereignty amazes
The princelings even, and the lesser kings:
But I am Baladan of Babylon.
The Voice in the Night
Never again inhabited,
Babylon, O Babylon
Even the wandering Arabian
From thy weary waste is gone.
Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there,
Nor any green herb be grown:
It cometh in the night-time suddenly,
And Babylon is overthrown.
The King
Pale from the east, the stars arise, and climb,
And then grow bright, beholding Babylon;
They would delay, but may not; so they pass,
And fade and fall, bereft of Babylon.
Quick from the Midian line the sun comes up,
For he expects to see my palaces;
And the moon lingers, even on the wane....
Mine ancient dynasty, as yon great river,
Euphrates, with his fountains in far hills,
Arose in the blue morning of the years;
And as yon river flows on into time,
Unalterable in majesty, my line
Survives in domination down the years.
I know, but am concerned not, that some peoples,
At the pale limits of the world, abide
As yet beyond the circle of my sway,
The miserable sons of meagre soil
That needs much tillage ere the yield be good.
I only wait until they ripen more,
And fatten toward my final harvesting:
When I am ready, I will reap them in.
For it is written in the stars, and read
Of all my wise men and astrologers,
That I, and my great line of Babylon,
Shall rule the world, and only find a bound
Where the horizon’s bounds are set, an end
When the world ends; so shall all other lands,
All languages, all peoples, and all tongues,
Become a fable told of olden times,
Deemed of our sons a thing incredulous.
The Voice in the Night
Woeful are thy desolate palaces,
Where doleful creatures lie,
And wild beasts out of the islands
In thy fallen chambers cry.
Where now are the viol and the tabret?—
But owls hoot in moonlight,
And over the ruins of Babylon
The satyrs dance by night.
The King
That voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s glory
Fails in the vast immensity of night,
As fails all earthly praise of Him who hears
The ceaseless acclamation of the stars.
What needs there more?—the apple of the world,
Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap,
And all the gods of Babylon, well pleased
With blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things,
Even while I take mine ease, attend on me:
The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine,
And in the plains climb the big sycamores;
My camels and my laden dromedaries
Move in from eastward bearing odorous gums,
And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams,
Even tall cedars out of Lebanon;
Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down,
And all great Babylon is filled with spoil.
Wherefore, upon the summit of the world,
The utmost apex of this thronèd realm,
I stand, as stands the driving charioteer,
And steer my course right onward toward the stars.
Mean-fated men my horses trample under,
And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers,
And smoothly my wheels run upon the necks
Of babes and sucklings,—while I hold my way,
Serene, supreme, secure in destiny,
Because the gods perceive mine excellence,
And entertain for mine imperial Person
Peculiar favours.... I am Babylon:
Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes.