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George Gordon Byron - To Belshazzar
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Belshazzar! from the banquet turn,
    Nor in thy sensual fulness fall;
Behold! while yet before thee burn
    The graven words, the glowing wall.
Many a despot men miscall
    Crown`d and anointed from on high;
But thou, the weakest, worst of all­
    Is it not written, thou must die?
 
Go! dash the roses from thy brow--
  Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; 
Youth`s garlands misbecome thee now,
  More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish`d every gem:
  Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev`n slaves con­temn; 
  And learn like better men to die!
 
Oh! early in the balance weigh`d,
  And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay`d,
  And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner`s mirth:
  But tears in Hope`s averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth--
  Unfit to govern, live, or die.
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