The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold;
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host, with its banners, at sunset was seen.
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn has blown
The 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 passed;
And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still:
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
Though through it there rolled not the breath of his pride.
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lancets unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Had melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.—Lord Byron
(2 Chron. 32. 21, 22; Ps. 121. 5; Jude 24)