THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned:
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth.
Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, oh earth!

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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 tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow-in the glance of the Lord!

THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.

LORD BYRON.

THE king was on his throne,
The satraps throng'd the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deem'd divine,
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 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR

The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look,

And tremulous his voice:
"Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear
Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw-but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth;
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night—
The morrow proved it true!

Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He, in the balance weigh'd,
Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud, his robe of state;
His canopy, the stone;
The Mede is at his gate,

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,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

"Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee;
My native land-good-night!

"A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth!

"Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page;
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale ?

"But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;

F

CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG.

"For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love;

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and One above.

"My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh,
Till I come back again.'

66

Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry!

"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale ?"

"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make ?"

"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.

"For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is-that I leave
Nothing that claims a tear.

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