I was sitting here a few minutes ago working on thinking . . . about what I could talk myself into doing today that would be productive while “Married Life” with Pierce Brosnan aired in the background. It’s a period piece from back when cars where big and made from metal . . . and men wore vests. It is about plotted murder, which I suppose is called premeditated. Then as the dialogue moved along, I heard this line: The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. Oh, yes, how many times have Der Bingle and I quoted that line? Over decades, I guess. I waited for the following clause: And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; it never came, but that’s all right. Somewhere in a make-believe place where people drive big cars with big, big steering wheels, The Destruction of Sennacherib pops up in conversation.
I’m sending Bob over to the bookshelves so we can refresh ourselves on the verses. We could look on the Internet, but it’s Byron, dontcha know. But, just in case he falls on the ladder, I peeked HERE and you can take a glimpse at this:
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The Destruction of Sennacherib |
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The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, |
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And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; |
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And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, |
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When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee. |
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Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, |
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: |
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Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, |
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That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. |
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, |
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And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; |
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, |
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And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! |
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And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, |
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But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; |
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And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, |
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. |
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And there lay the rider distorted and pale, |
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With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: |
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And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, |
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The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown. |
And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail, |
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And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; |
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And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, |
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Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! |