THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
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 were 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!
I know not that the men of old Were better than men now,
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow:
I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of Time to raise,
As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days.
To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done,
A game where each man took his part, A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know,
Content, as men at arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe.
Man now his Virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears,
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares:
Blending their souls' sublimest needs
With tasks of every day,
They went about their gravest deeds,
As noble boys at play.
Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton)
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Every thing did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by:
That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead: All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me.
I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep,
Oh! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Aye, the child I had,
But was not to keep.
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There, in train, came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, Oh! it did not burn; He, to clear my doubt, Said, half turn'd about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate!
Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour
Should be, Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore !
Full fathom five thy father lies: Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell; Hark! now I hear them,
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