That host on the morrow lay withered and strown … Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,Īnd his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold Īnd the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, Like ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’, it is a poem about world-weariness and disillusionment: a quintessential theme of Byron’s poetry, and something which arguably sets him apart from much of the work of his contemporaries John Keats and Percy Shelley. But it is over – and it is now Lent, with all its abstinence and sacred music… Though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find “the sword wearing out the scabbard,” though I have but just turned the corner of twenty nine.’ The Carnival – that is, the latter part of it, and sitting up late o’ nights – had knocked me up a little. Byron sent this poem to his friend Thomas Moore in a letter of 1817:īyron prefaced the poem with a few words: ‘At present, I am on the invalid regimen myself.
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