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 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 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 unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

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!

O judge us kindly, Thou that judgest rightly 
All things that mortal are — 
Men that lift up weak hands unto Thee nightly 
And every wandering star. 
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning, 
Thine is the empty hearth: 
Thine, too, the quiet sleep for all men's winning 
In kindly earth: 
And Thine, the souls that wake from sleep to sinning, 
Osiris. 

We saw Thee not, Lord, in the crowded city, 
Nor in the market-place 
Heard we the falling of Thy feet: have pity, 
Let Thy queen's hidden face 
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying; 
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom, 
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom: 
By Philae, where Thy mortal part is lying, 
We know ye live, we know that we are dying, 
Osiris! 

Thou knowest we are weak: that we are strong 
We know not: for like waves 
We fall and shatter, and a bridal song 
Breaks music round our graves. 
We are the strings that help thy harp to sweetness. 
Alas! we only sing 
Sweet things borne down, and ruin that ends completeness, 
Lord, and our King! 
Thine is the dream, and Thine the dawn that breaks it; 
We can but dream and die. 
Thou art the song and the silence that o'ertakes it 
Ere yet the tears be dry. 
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth, 
At noon thou mak'st red earth of him again: 
We cry against thee, "Who art thou that judgeth, 
Maker who marrest men?"