IT is the dead of night: 
Yet more than noonday light 
Beams far and wide from many a gorgeous hall. 
Unnumbered harps are tinkling, 
Unnumbered lamps are twinkling, 
In the great city of the fourfold wall. 
By the brazen castle's moat, 
The sentry hums a livelier note. 
The ship-boy chaunts a shriller lay 
From the galleys in the bay. 
Shout, and laugh, and hurrying feet 
Sound from mart and square and street, 
From the breezy laurel shades, 
From the granite colonnades, 
From the golden statue's base, 
From the stately market-place, 
Where, upreared by captive hands, 
The great Tower of Triumph stands, 
All its pillars in a blaze 
With the many-coloured rays, 
Which lanthorns of ten thousand dyes 
Shed on ten thousand panoplies. 
But closest is the throng, 
And loudest is the song, 
In that sweet garden by the river side, 
The abyss of myrtle bowers, 
The wilderness of flowers, 
Where Cain hath built the palace of his pride. 
Such palace ne'er shall be again 
Among the dwindling race of men. 
From all its threescore gates the light 
Of gold and steel afar was thrown; 
Two hundred cubits rose in height 
The outer wall of polished stone. 
On the top was ample space 
For a gallant chariot race, 
Near either parapet a bed 
Of the richest mould was spread, 
Where amidst flowers of every scent and hue 
Rich orange trees, and palms, and giant cedars grew. 

In the mansion's public court 
All is revel, song, and sport; 
For there, till morn shall tint the east, 
Menials and guards prolong the feast. 
The boards with painted vessels shine; 
The marble cisterns foam with wine. 
A hundred dancing girls are there 
With zoneless waists and streaming hair; 
And countless eyes with ardour gaze, 
And countless hands the measure beat, 
As mix and part in amorous maze 
Those floating arms and bounding feet. 
But none of all the race of Cain, 
Save those whom he hath deigned to grace 
With yellow robe and sapphire chain, 
May pass beyond that outer space. 
For now within the painted hall 
The Firstborn keeps high festival. 
Before the glittering valves all night 
Their post the chosen captains hold. 
Above the portal's stately height 
The legend flames in lamps of gold: 
'In life united and in death 
'May Tirzah and Ahirad be, 
'The bravest he of all the sons of Seth, 
'Of all the house of Cain the loveliest she.' 

Through all the climates of the earth 
This night is given to festal mirth. 
The long continued war is ended. 
The long divided lines are blended. 
Ahirad's bow shall now no more 
Make fat the wolves with kindred gore. 
The vultures shall expect in vain 
Their banquet from the sword of Cain. 
Without a guard the herds and flocks 
Along the frontier moors and rocks 
From eve to morn may roam: 
Nor shriek, nor shout, nor reddened sky, 
Shall warn the startled hind to fly 
From his beloved home. 
Nor to the pier shall burghers crowd 
With straining necks and faces pale, 
And think that in each flitting cloud 
They see a hostile sail. 
The peasant without fear shall guide 
Down smooth canal or river wide 
His painted bark of cane, 
Fraught, for some proud bazaar's arcades, 
With chestnuts from his native shades, 
And wine, and milk, and grain. 
Search round the peopled globe to-night, 
Explore each continent and isle, 
There is no door without a light, 
No face without a smile. 
The noblest chiefs of either race, 
From north and south, from west and east, 
Crowd to the painted hall to grace 
The pomp of that atoning feast. 
With widening eyes and labouring breath 
Stand the fair-haired sons of Seth, 
As bursts upon their dazzled sight 
The endless avenue of light, 
The bowers of tulip, rose, and palm, 
The thousand cressets fed with balm, 
The silken vests, the boards piled high 
With amber, gold, and ivory, 
The crystal founts whence sparkling flow 
The richest wines o'er beds of snow, 
The walls where blaze in living dyes 
The king's three hundred victories. 
The heralds point the fitting seat 
To every guest in order meet, 
And place the highest in degree 
Nearest th' imperial canopy. 
Beneath its broad and gorgeous fold, 
With naked swords and shields of gold, 
Stood the seven princes of the tribes of Nod. 
Upon an ermine carpet lay 
Two tiger cubs in furious play, 
Beneath the emerald throne where sat the signed of God. 

Over that ample forehead white 
The thousandth year returneth. 
Still, on its commanding height, 
With a fierce and blood-red light, 
The fiery token burneth. 
Wheresoe'er that mystic star 
Blazeth in the van of war, 
Back recoil before its ray 
Shield and banner, bow and spear, 
Maddened horses break aw