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 on 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, 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 laid in their wail, THE EAST. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. LYRIC VERSES. The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! The Scian and the Teian muse, The mountains look on Marathon- I dreamt that Greece might still be free; A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations; all were his ! And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? And answer, Let one living head, But one arise-we come, we come!" "Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain: strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one! Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine : He served but served Polycrates A tyrant: but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend! That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. |