"She came with mother and with sire-- 840 What need of more?--I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest. They found me senseless on the plain-- They bore me to the nearest hut-- 845 They brought me into life again-- Me--one day o'er their realm to reign! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain, Sent me forth to the wilderness, 850 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, To pass the desert to a throne,-- What mortal his own doom may guess?-- Let none despond, let none despair! To-morrow the Borysthenes 855 May see our coursers graze at ease Upon his Turkish bank,--and never Had I such welcome for a river As I shall yield when safely there. Comrades, good night!"--The Hetman threw 860 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, With leafy couch already made, A bed nor comfortless nor new To him who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where: 865 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale _he_ wonder'd not,-- The king had been an hour asleep. 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, 5 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 in the face of the foe as he passed; 10 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! 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, 15 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 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. 20 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! JOHN KEATS THE EVE OF ST. AGNES I