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The waving censer drops to earth—and lo! The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might, Trembles before a shadow!— Say not so! —The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight, Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

But haste ye!—bring Chaldea's gifted seers, The men of prescience!—haply to their eyes, Which track the future through the rolling spheres, Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies. They come—the readers of the midnight skies, They that gave voice to visions—but in vain! Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, It hath no language 'midst the starry train, Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, And other inspiration!—one of those Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows.