The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne!"

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THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

I

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.

II

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 wither'd and strown.

III

5

IO

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

IV

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd 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.

V

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

15

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.

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VI

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!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

II

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 5 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.

III

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

IO

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

IV

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope

of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

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V

or be what I have been,

Oh, could I feel as I have felt,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though
they be,

So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to

II

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

III

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.

IV

Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe:

V

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

VI

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

VII

Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;

And the undying thought which paineth that we no more shall meet.

Is

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

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