And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years: And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,-- Over the unreasoning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife; The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover,--heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! Lord Byron. CCXXXVIII. 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 strewn. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 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, 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 uplifted, the trumpet unknown.