The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of 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 there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, 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.