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.
_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._
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.
_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._