AN GAODHAL.
﻿685
VISION of BALTASSAR.
By a Tuam Nun — (From the Tuam News)
Air a chathaoir bhí an rígh,
Lár satrapaidh go h-uile;
Bhí míle lóchrain buidhe,
'Sgeith soluis air an bh-féile
Bhí míle sgála óir-
'Nn Iuda a síltear naomhtha,
Tá sgála Dé na glóir'
Le fíon páganta líonta.
Air 'n uair sin anns an halla,
Bhí meur le cumhacht ó neamh,
Aig sgríobhadh air 'n m-balla,
Léitridh mar air ghaineamh:
Bhí na meur' mar meura fir;
Níor fhacas acht an lámh,
Ag sgríobh go luath a's fíor
'Gus 'g a ndearbhadh go raimh.
Thuit eagla air an rígh,
'Gus thug sé ordughadh geur,
Gan bheith súbach, mar bhí,
Faoi thuar mhór so na meur.
Bídheadh ann so gach fear leighin,
Fir críona, móra an domhain,
A's mínighdís duinn féin,
Na focla so tá rómhainn.
Tá fáidhidh Caildia maith,
Acht 'nois ní'l acha eolus
Le míniughadh do 'n bh-flaith,
Na focla, réir a n-dualgas.
Tá fir tír Babel sean,
Táid lán, ar n-dóigh, de fhios
Acht faraoir! táid anfhan,
Radharc gan aon leurgas.
Bhí fear óg anns an tír
Faoi ghéibhionn chruaidh, coigcrích
Do léigh an tuar go fíor
Mar d' orduigh dó an rígh
Lár lonra thuig sé an nídh,
An roimh-sgeul léigh go h-aireach,
Do léigh sé shé 'san oidhch'
'Gus bhí sé fíor 'san máireach.
Tá uaigh Bhaltasair réidh,
An rígheacht bhreágh 'n a spré;
Meáidhte a sgála Dé
Ní'l ann acht luaith a's cré.
Ta brat an rígh, mo bhrón!
Áthruighthe ann ais-eudach
Ghlac an Peirseach a chróin,
Bhris a gheataidh an Meudach.
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.
