AN GAOḊAL.
﻿685
VISION of BALTASSAR.
By a Tuam Nun — (From the Tuam News)
Air a ċaṫaoir ḃí an ríġ,
Lár satrapaiḋ go h-uile;
Ḃí míle lóċrain buiḋe,
'Sgeiṫ soluis air an ḃ-féile
Ḃí míle sgála óir-
'Nn Iuda a síltear naoṁṫa,
Tá sgála Dé na glóir'
Le fíon páganta líonta.
Air 'n uair sin anns an halla,
Ḃí meur le cuṁaċt ó neaṁ,
Aig sgríoḃaḋ air 'n m-balla,
Léitriḋ mar air ġaineaṁ:
Ḃí na meur' mar meura fir;
Níor ḟacas aċt an láṁ,
Ag sgríoḃ go luaṫ a's fíor
'Gus 'g a ndearḃaḋ go raiṁ.
Ṫuit eagla air an ríġ,
'Gus ṫug sé orduġaḋ geur,
Gan ḃeiṫ súbaċ, mar ḃí,
Faoi ṫuar ṁór so na meur.
Bíḋeaḋ ann so gaċ fear leiġin,
Fir críona, móra an doṁain,
A's míniġdís duinn féin,
Na focla so tá róṁainn.
Tá fáiḋiḋ Caildia maiṫ,
Aċt 'nois ní'l aċa eolus
Le míniuġaḋ do 'n ḃ-flaiṫ,
Na focla, réir a n-dualgas.
Tá fir tír Babel sean,
Táid lán, ar n-dóiġ, de ḟios
Aċt faraoir! táid anḟan,
Raḋarc gan aon leurgas.
Ḃí fear óg anns an tír
Faoi ġéiḃionn ċruaiḋ, coigcríċ
Do léiġ an tuar go fíor
Mar d' orduiġ dó an ríġ
Lár lonra ṫuig sé an níḋ,
An roiṁ-sgeul léiġ go h-aireaċ,
Do léiġ sé ṡé 'san oiḋċ'
'Gus ḃí sé fíor 'san máireaċ.
Tá uaiġ Ḃaltasair réiḋ,
An ríġeaċt ḃreáġ 'n a spré;
Meáiḋte a sgála Dé
Ní'l ann aċt luaiṫ a's cré.
Ta brat an ríġ, mo ḃrón!
Áṫruiġṫe ann ais-eudaċ
Ġlac an Peirseaċ a ċróin,
Ḃris a ġeataiḋ an Meudaċ.
ORIGINAL
(Byron)
The king was on his throne,
The Satraps thronged the hall,
A thousand bright lamps shone,
O’er that high festival;
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed devine —
Jehovah's vessels hold
The Godless heathen's wine.
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand;
The fingers of a man,
A solitary hand,
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw and shook,
And bade no more rejoice,
All bloodless waxed his look
And tremulous his voice ;
Ye men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
Expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.
Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill;
The mystic letters stood,
Untold, and awful still,
And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore,
But here they are not sage,
They saw, and knew no more.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
And saw the writing's truth,
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view,
He read it on that night,
The morrow found it true.
Beltassar's grave is made,
His kingdom passed away,
He in the balance weighed,
Is vile and worthless clay.
The shroud his robe of state,
His canopy — the stone.
The MEDE is at his gate,
The Persian on his throne.
