THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. And one, o'er her the myrtle showers The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played They that with smiles lit up the hall, And naught beyond, oh earth! 201 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. LORD BYRON. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset was seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed: And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. LORD BYRON. THE king was on his throne, The godless heathen's wine. In that same hour and hall 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 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR The monarch saw, and shook, And tremulous his voice: Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill; Are wise and deep in lore; A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, Belshazzar's grave is made, The Persian on his throne !" 203 CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. LORD BYRON. 66 ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night winds sigh, the breakers roar, "Yon sun that sets upon the sea "A few short hours, and he will rise "Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, "Come hither, hither, my little page; "But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I F CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. "For I have from my father gone, And have no friend, save these alone, "My father blessed me fervently, 66 Enough, enough, my little lad, Mine own would not be dry! "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? But thinking on an absent wife "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, And when they on their father call, "Enough, enough, my yeoman good, "For pleasures past I do not grieve, 205 |