And satyrs dance where once thy temples stood;

The lion, roaming on his angry way,

Shall on thy sacred altars rend his prey;

The distant isles at midnight gloom shall hear

Their frightful clamours, and, in secret, fear.

[Pg 69]

No more their snowy flocks shall shepherds lead

By Babel's silver stream and fertile mead;

Or peasant girls at summer's eve repair,

To wreathe with wilding flowers their flowing hair;

Or pour their plaintive ditties to the wave,

That rolls its sullen murmurs o'er thy grave.

The wandering Arab there no rest shall find,

But, starting, listen to the hollow wind

That howls, prophetic, through thy ruined halls,

And flee in haste from thy accursed walls.

Oh Babylon, with wrath encompassed round,

For thee no hope, no mercy, shall be found:

Thy doom is sealed—e'en to thy ruin clings

The awful sentence of the King of kings!

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