III Farewell to others, but never we part, 1 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR The Vision of Belshazzar is based upon Daniel v. He, in the balance weighed, The Persian on his throne!" THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB See 2 Kings xviii and xix for the historical incident. I HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, THE 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, III For the angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, IV 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, V And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: VI And the widows of Ashur1 are loud in their wail, STANZAS FOR MUSIC THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. - GRAY'S Poemata These stanzas were written on hearing of the death of the Duke of Dorset, who was killed by a fall from his horse while hunting, in March, 1815. Dorset had been among Byron's warmest friends at Harrow. "Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? . . . I mean those beginning, 'There's not a joy the world can give,' etc., on which I pique myself as being the truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." - Byron's letter to Moore, March, 1816 TH I HERE'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. 1 Ashur the highest god of the Assyrians; but the word here stands for the country of Assyria itself. II Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain III Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; 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 grey beneath. V Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 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 me. |