WHITEHALL GALLERY

As when the King of old

‘ Mid Babylonian gold,

And picture-woven walls, and lamps that gleam'd

Unholy radiance, sate,

And with some smooth slave-mate

Toy'd, and the wine laugh'd round, and music stream'd

Voluptuous undulation, o'er the hall,—

Till on the palace-wall

Forth came a hand divine

And wrote the judgment-sign,

And Babylon fell!— So now, in that his place

Of Tudor-Stuart pride,

The golden gallery wide,

‘ Mid venal beauty's lavish-arm'd embrace,

And hills of gambler-gold, a godless King

Moved through the revelling

With quick brown falcon-eye

And lips of gay reply;

Wise in the wisdom not from Heaven!— as one

Who from his exile-days

Had learn'd to scorn the praise

Of truth, the crown by martyr-virtue won:

Below ambition:— Grant him regal ease!

The rest, as fate may please!

— O royal heir, restored

Not by the bitter sword,

But when the heart of these great realms in free,

Full, triple, unison beat

The Martyr's son to greet,

Her ancient law and faith and flag with thee

Rethroned,— not thus!— in this inglorious hall

Of harem-festival,

Not thus!— For even now,

The blaze is on thy brow

Scored by the shadowy hand of him whose wing

Knows neither haste nor rest;

Who from the board each guest

In season calling,— knight and kerne and king,—

Where Arthur lies, and Alfred, signs the way;—

— We know him, and obey.