"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."
"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."
O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: He turned and kissed her where she stood: "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood--
"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."
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 drinks the dark wine; Whilst 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.
Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.