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The Day Lady Died -- Frank O'Hara

Guest poem sent in by Robert Finnegan
(Poem #722) The Day Lady Died
 It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
 three days after Bastille day, yes
 it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
 because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
 at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
 and I don't know the people who will feed me

 I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
 and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
 an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
 in Ghana are doing these days
 in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank
 and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
 doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life
 and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
 for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
 think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
 Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
 of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine
 after practically going to sleep with quandariness

 and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
 Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
 then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
 and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
 casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
 of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

 and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
 leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
 while she whispered a song along the keyboard
 to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
-- Frank O'Hara
I thought of this poem last night while watching Ken Burns' film on jazz.
There was an especially interesting part about 52nd Street in Manhattan (it
became known as simply "the street" because of the many jazz houses on the
block between 5th and 6th Avenue). In talking about the street, there was
some interviews with people who knew Billie Holiday (who needless to say is
the Lady of this poem). Her drummer said that no matter what was going on in
the place--no matter how rocking the previous band might have been--complete
silence fell when Lady began to sing.

Also, after looking over the list of poems previously presented, I thought
Frank O'Hara should be represented. This poem is one of my favorites and is
indicative of O'Hara's style in general. The poem moves with the pace of the
city that he loved, his love affair with the New York pace is apparent in
the title of one of his few books, Mediations in an Emergency. O'Hara's mind
seems to be in constant motion in the poems and yet everything is
observed--everything is present.

Commentary from the pros can be enjoyed at
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/ohara/ladydied.htm

Biography - Frank O'Hara

Claudia Milstead

  O'HARA, Frank (27 Mar. 1926-25 July 1966), poet, was born Francis Russell
  O'Hara in Baltimore, Maryland, the son of Russell Joseph O'Hara and
  Katherine Broderick, who both came from strict Irish-Catholic families.
  O'Hara always believed he was born 27 June 1926, but his parents
  apparently lied about his birthdate to hide the fact that he was conceived
  before their marriage. Shortly after their wedding in Grafton,
  Massachusetts, in September 1925, the couple moved to Baltimore, where
  their child was born six months later. They lived in Baltimore for
  eighteen months before being summoned back to Grafton so that Russell
  O'Hara could run the family farm for his ailing uncle.

  In June 1944, shortly after his high school graduation, O'Hara enlisted in
  the U.S. Navy. He served as a sonarman third class on the destroyer USS
  Nicholas. After receiving an honorable discharge in 1946, O'Hara went to
  Harvard on the GI Bill. He took creative writing classes from John Ciardi
  and earned a B.A. in 1950. With Ciardi's recommendation, O'Hara was given
  a graduate fellowship in comparative literature at the University of
  Michigan, where he earned an M.A. in 1951. His collection of poems, "A
  Byzantine Place," and Try! Try!, a verse play, won O'Hara the Avery
  Hopwood Major Award in poetry.

  O'Hara then moved to New York to join fellow poet John Ashbery, whom he
  had met at Harvard. Living at first on the money from the Hopwood, O'Hara
  wrote poetry and explored the city. In New York O'Hara was finally free to
  live openly as a homosexual and to indulge his interest in the arts. He
  worked briefly as an assistant to photographer Cecil Beaton, then looked
  for a more permanent job, preferably one that would allow him time to
  write. What he found was ideal. In December 1951 he was hired to work at
  the front desk of the Museum of Modern Art, selling postcards,
  publications, and tickets. He often wrote poems while he worked at the
  counter, and his friends in the art world frequently stopped by to visit.
  O'Hara began writing articles for Art News and in 1953 became an editorial
  associate. He continued to write for the publication when he returned to
  the Museum of Modern Art in 1955. The abstract expressionism movement,
  whose major artists were Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline, and Jackson
  Pollock, was flourishing in New York, and O'Hara, along with John Ashbery
  and Kenneth Koch, became part of the avant-garde art scene. In 1952
  O'Hara's A City Winter and Other Poems was published, a collection of
  thirteen poems with two drawings by Larry Rivers. The collection was the
  first of a series of books by poets with artists' drawings published by
  the Tibor de Nagy gallery. At this time O'Hara became involved with the
  Club, an artists' forum that had been established in the 1940s. Beginning
  in March 1952, O'Hara appeared on a series of panels to discuss art and
  poetry.

  O'Hara's first collection of poetry to receive wide recognition was
  Meditations in an Emergency (1957). Even though early reviews were
  unenthusiastic, it became the collection for which he was primarily known
  during his lifetime. While Meditations was being prepared for publication,
  O'Hara was approached by a publisher about collaborating with artist Larry
  Rivers. The resulting project, a series of twelve lithographs titled
  Stones, was produced between 1957 and 1960. For the work, Rivers and
  O'Hara worked directly on the stones from which the lithographs were made.
  O'Hara had to write backward so the text would be readable in the finished
  lithograph. In 1960 O'Hara published the collections Second Avenue and
  Odes. Perhaps the most significant event in O'Hara's writing career
  occurred that year, when Donald Allen published The New American Poetry:
  1945-1960. Allen classified the forty-four poets by groups: New York
  School, Beat Generation, San Francisco Renaissance, and Black Mountain.
  O'Hara, identified as part of the New York School, was a dominant poet in
  the anthology, with fifteen of his poems included. Two more collections
  were published during his lifetime: Lunch Poems (1964) and Love Poems
  (Tentative Title) (1965). Several more volumes of O'Hara's poems were
  published after his death, notably The Collected Poems of Frank O'Hara
  (1971), The Selected Poems of Frank O'Hara (1974), and Poems Retrieved:O'Hara sought to capture in his poetry the immediacy of life, feeling that
  poetry should be "between two persons instead of two pages." He was
  inspired and energized by New York City as other poets have been inspired
  and energized by nature. In Meditations he wrote, "I can't even enjoy a
  blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or
  some other sign that people do not totally regret life." He described his
  work as "I do this I do that" poetry because his poems often read like
  entries in a diary, as in this line from "The Day Lady Died": "it is 1959
  and I go get a shoeshine."

  O'Hara died of injuries he received when he was hit by a vehicle on the
  beach at Fire Island, on Long Island, New York. O'Hara's papers are in the
  Literary Archives, University of Connecticut Library, Storrs. Brad Gooch,
  City Poet: The Life and Times of Frank O'Hara (1993), is well researched
  and is the most comprehensive biography of O'Hara available. It also
  corrects inaccuracies in the newspaper reports of O'Hara's death. For a
  critical study of O'Hara's poetry, see Marjorie Perloff, Frank O'Hara:
  Poet among Painters (1977). A more concise study of O'Hara's life and work
  is Alan Feldman, Frank O'Hara (1979). Brief obituaries are in Time, 5 Aug.
  1966, p. 76, and Newsweek, 8 Aug. 1966, p. 74.

    -- From American National Biography. New York: Oxford University Press,
    1999. Copyright © 1999 by the American Council of Learned Societies.

Marriage a la mode -- John Dryden

Guest poem sent in by Deepa Balakrishnan

Jan 2nd 's poem 'No Second Troy' reminded me of Dryden's 'Alexander's Feast'
and I decided to check out the minstrels site to read it when I realised
with shock that not a single poem of John Dryden's is featured there...
hence, the ardent need to set aright the situation:
(Poem #721) Marriage a la mode
 Why should a foolish marriage vow,
     Which long ago was made,
 Oblige us to each other now
     When passion is decay'd?
 We lov'd, and we lov'd, as long as we could,
     Till our love was lov'd out in us both:
 But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:
     'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

 If I have pleasures for a friend,
     And farther love in store,
 What wrong has he whose joys did end,
     And who could give no more?
 'Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me,
     Or that I should bar him of another:
 For all we can gain is to give our selves pain,
     When neither can hinder the other.
-- John Dryden
I didn't know this poem existed till a few days ago... but when I read it,
it was quite surprising... not only for the unconventionality of thought
(usually, love poems gush on and on about the eternity of love) but what is
also refreshing is the timing, as in, when the poem was written... 16th
century, and just before the Romantics... and the poem's all practicality...
perhaps that's why the Age of Dryden and Pope is also called the 'Age of
Reason'... even modern/ contemporary poems don't seem to adopt this
pragmatic an approach.

-Deepa

[This *was* a rather glaring omission in our list of poets - thanks to Deepa
for rectifying it - m.]

Dryden biography:
  http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/8/0,5716,,00.html?kw=dryden%20john

The Dream of Eugene Aram -- Thomas Hood

Winding up the theme...
(Poem #720) The Dream of Eugene Aram
 'Twas in the prime of summer-time
 An evening calm and cool,
 And four-and-twenty happy boys
 Came bounding out of school:
 There were some that ran and some that leapt,
 Like troutlets in a pool.

 Away they sped with gamesome minds,
 And souls untouched by sin;
 To a level mead they came, and there
 They drave the wickets in:
 Pleasantly shone the setting sun
 Over the town of Lynn.

 Like sportive deer they coursed about,
 And shouted as they ran,--
 Turning to mirth all things of earth,
 As only boyhood can;
 But the Usher sat remote from all,
 A melancholy man!

 His hat was off, his vest apart,
 To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
 For a burning thought was in his brow,
 And his bosom ill at ease:
 So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
 The book upon his knees!

 Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er
 Nor ever glanced aside,
 For the peace of his soul he read that book
 In the golden eventide:
 Much study had made him very lean,
 And pale, and leaden-eyed.

 At last he shut the pond'rous tome,
 With a fast and fervent grasp
 He strained the dusky covers close,
 And fixed the brazen hasp;
 "Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
 And clasp it with a clasp!"

 Then leaping on his feet upright,
 Some moody turns he took,--
 Now up the mead, then down the mead,
 And past a shady nook,--
 And lo! he saw a little boy
 That pored upon a book.

 "My gentle lad, what is't you read --
 Romance or fairy fable?
 Or is it some historic page,
 Of kings and crowns unstable?"
 The young boy gave an upward glance,--
 "It is 'The Death of Abel.'"

 The Usher took six hasty strides,
 As smit with sudden pain, --
 Six hasty strides beyond the place,
 Then slowly back again;
 And down he sat beside the lad,
 And talked with him of Cain;

 And, long since then, of bloody men,
 Whose deeds tradition saves;
 Of lonely folks cut off unseen,
 And hid in sudden graves;
 Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
 And murders done in caves;

 And how the sprites of injured men
 Shriek upward from the sod. --
 Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
 To show the burial clod:
 And unknown facts of guilty acts
 Are seen in dreams from God!

 He told how murderers walk the earth
 Beneath the curse of Cain, --
 With crimson clouds before their eyes,
 And flames about their brain:
 For blood has left upon their souls
 Its everlasting stain!

 "And well," quoth he, "I know for truth,
 Their pangs must be extreme, --
 Woe, woe, unutterable woe, --
 Who spill life's sacred stream!
 For why, Methought last night I wrought
 A murder, in a dream!

 One that had never done me wrong --
 A feeble man and old;
 I led him to a lonely field,
 The moon shone clear and cold:
 Now here, said I, this man shall die,
 And I will have his gold!

 "Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
 And one with a heavy stone,
 One hurried gash with a hasty knife, --
 And then the deed was done:
 There was nothing lying at my foot
 But lifeless flesh and bone!

 "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
 That could not do me ill;
 And yet I feared him all the more,
 For lying there so still:
 There was a manhood in his look,
 That murder could not kill!"

 "And lo! the universal air
 Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
 Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
 Were looking down in blame:
 I took the dead man by his hand,
 And called upon his name!

 "O God! it made me quake to see
 Such sense within the slain!
 But when I touched the lifeless clay,
 The blood gushed out amain!
 For every clot, a burning spot
 Was scorching in my brain!

 "My head was like an ardent coal,
 My heart as solid ice;
 My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
 Was at the Devil's price:
 A dozen times I groaned: the dead
 Had never groaned but twice!

 "And now, from forth the frowning sky,
 From the Heaven's topmost height,
 I heard a voice -- the awful voice
 Of the blood-avenging sprite --
 'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead
 And hide it from my sight!'

 "I took the dreary body up,
 And cast it in a stream, --
 A sluggish water, black as ink,
 The depth was so extreme:
 My gentle boy, remember this
 Is nothing but a dream!

 "Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,
 And vanished in the pool;
 Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
 And washed my forehead cool,
 And sat among the urchins young,
 That evening in the school.

 "Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls,
 And mine so black and grim!
 I could not share in childish prayer,
 Nor join in Evening Hymn:
 Like a Devil of the Pit I seemed,
 'Mid holy Cherubim!

 "And peace went with them, one and all,
 And each calm pillow spread;
 But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
 That lighted me to bed;
 And drew my midnight curtains round
 With fingers bloody red!

 "All night I lay in agony,
 In anguish dark and deep,
 My fevered eyes I dared not close,
 But stared aghast at Sleep:
 For Sin had rendered unto her
 The keys of Hell to keep!

 "All night I lay in agony,
 From weary chime to chime,
 With one besetting horrid hint,
 That racked me all the time;
 A mighty yearning, like the first
 Fierce impulse unto crime!

 "One stern, tyrannic thought, that made
 All other thoughts its slave;
 Stronger and stronger every pulse
 Did that temptation crave, --
 Still urging me to go and see
 The Dead Man in his grave!

 "Heavily I rose up, as soon
 As light was in the sky,
 And sought the black accursèd pool
 With a wild misgiving eye:
 And I saw the Dead in the river-bed,
 For the faithless stream was dry.

 "Merrily rose the lark, and shook
 The dewdrop from its wing;
 But I never marked its morning flight,
 I never heard it sing:
 For I was stooping once again
 Under the horrid thing.

 "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
 I took him up and ran;
 There was no time to dig a grave
 Before the day began:
 In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
 I hid the murdered man!

 "And all that day I read in school,
 But my thought was otherwhere;
 As soon as the midday task was done,
 In secret I went there:
 And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
 And still the corpse was bare!

 "Then down I cast me on my face,
 And first began to weep,
 For I knew my secret then was one
 That earth refused to keep:
 Or land, or sea, though he should be
 Ten thousand fathoms deep.

 "So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
 Till blood for blood atones!
 Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
 And trodden down with stones,
 And years have rotted off his flesh, --
 The world shall see his bones!

 "Oh God! that horrid, horrid dream
 Besets me now awake!
 Again--again, with dizzy brain,
 The human life I take:
 And my red right hand grows raging hot,
 Like Cranmer's at the stake.

 "And still no peace for the restless clay,
 Will wave or mould allow;
 The horrid thing pursues my soul --
 It stands before me now!"
 The fearful Boy looked up, and saw
 Huge drops upon his brow.

 That very night while gentle sleep
 The urchin's eyelids kissed,
 Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
 Through the cold and heavy mist;
 And Eugene Aram walked between,
 With gyves upon his wrist.
-- Thomas Hood
Notes:

  Aram, Eugene (1704-59), English philologist, b. Yorkshire.
  A self-taught linguist, Aram was the first to identify the Celtic
  languages as related to the other languages of Europe. In 1758, while at
  work on an Anglo-Celtic lexicon, he was arrested and later hanged for the
  murder 14 years earlier of his friend Daniel Clark. The story of his
  crime inspired Thomas Hood's poem The Dream of Eugene Aram, and
  Bulwer-Lytton's novel Eugene Aram.

A long poem, but a delightful one. Having the protagonist cast his
confession in the form of a dream was an inspired decision, and fits well
the slightly fevered tone of the poem, as does his catching hold of the
fearful boy in a manner reminiscent of Coleridge's 'Ancient Mariner'.

'Eugene Aram' is definitely my favourite among the poems run in this week's
theme - with its gripping story, clever framing device and effortless
execution it certainly deserves a place in any list of great narrative
poems. And it is surely not Hood's fault that the poem's atmosphere of
solemn eeriness was somewhat spoilt for me by a chance resemblance to 'The
Walrus and the Carpenter', any more than it is Dickinson's fault that people
keep trying to sing her poems to The Yellow Rose of Texas <g>.

Links:

  For the full and fascinating story of Eugene Aram, see
    [broken link] http://www.law.utexas.edu/lpop/etext/newgate3/aram.htm

  Biography of Hood:
    poem #251

  We've run several Hood poems on minstrels:
    Poem #251 No!
    Poem #512 Silence
    Poem #672 Death

Theme:

  For some reason, Wooster could never quite remember Eugene Aram's name -
  he quotes it "and tumty tumty walked between with gyves upon his wrist"
  (someone please post the full quote).

  Here are some other poems that would have fitted into the theme (thanks to
  Thomas for helping round them up):
    Poem #12,  "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer", John Keats
    Poem #133, "Song, from Pippa Passes", Robert Browning
    Poem #146, "Trees", Joyce Kilmer
    Poem #153, "Abou Ben Adhem", James Leigh Hunt
    Poem #316, "Ode to a Nightingale", John Keats

  And, for completeness' sake, the theme summary:
    Poem #715, "The Blessed Damozel", Dante Gabriel Rossetti
    Poem #717, "The Wreck of the Hesperus", Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    Poem #718, "The Destruction of Sennacherib", George Gordon, Lord Byron
    Poem #719, "Loch Lomond", Lady John Scott
    Poem #720, "The Dream of Eugene Aram", Thomas Hood

  And some other Wodehouse-related poems
    Poem #353, "P. G. Wooster, Just as he Useter", Ogden Nash
    Poem #179, "Missed", P. G. Wodehouse
    Poem #408, "Caliban at Sunset", P. G. Wodehouse

  Also, Thomas beat me to the post with this one, but I'll repeat it anyway:
  There's a Wodehouse song collection at
    [broken link] http://people.netscape.com/thaths/wodehouse/
  "an attempt by the good folks at alt.fan.wodehouse to collect the text of
  all the songs that P.G.,Wodehouse makes cursory references to in his
  books"

martin

Loch Lomond -- Lady John Scott

Chiming in...
(Poem #719) Loch Lomond
 By yon bonnie banks, and by yon bonnie braes,
 Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond,
 Where me and my true love were ever wont to be,
 On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

        Oh, you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,
        And I'll be in Scotland afore ye
        But me and my true love will never meet again,
        On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

 I mind where we parted in yon shady glen,
 On the steep, steep side of Ben Lomond,
 Where in deep purple hue the Highland hills we view,
 And the moon coming out in the gloaming.

        Oh, you'll take the high road... etc.

 The wee birdies sing and the wild flowers spring,
 And in sunshine the waters are sleeping,
 But the broken heart will ken no second spring again,
 And the world does not know how we are greeting.

        Oh, you'll take the high road... etc.
-- Lady John Scott
Mistakenly attributed by Lord Ickenham to the poet Burns.

Referred to in 'Uncle Fred In The Springtime' (1940):

  From some spot hidden from them by thick shrubberies there came the sound
of a pleasant tenor voice. It was rendering "Bonny, Bonny Banks of Loch
Lomond", and putting a good deal of feeling into it.
  "Gah! that whistling feller again!"
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "Chap who comes whistling and singing outside my window," said the Duke,
like the heroine of an old-fashioned novelette speaking of her lover.

        -- P. G. Wodehouse, 'Uncle Fred In the Springtime"

The Duke (Alaric, of Dunstable) dislikes the song with an especially
virulent dislike because, well, it doesn't _rhyme_. Oh well. One can't have
everything <grin>.

thomas.

[Moreover]

Leslie Nelson's _Contemplator_ folk website has a MIDI file of this song:
[broken link] http://www.contemplator.com/folk/lomond.mid
recorded by Barry Taylor.

Nelson goes on to say:

"Loch Lomond is an old Jacobite Air. It is based on an older folk tune
'Robin Cushie (Kind Robin Loves Me)', in McGibbons' Scots Tunes Book I,
dated 1742. The words are attributed to Lady John Scott (1810-1900) who
adapted a broadside by Sanderson of Edinburgh (1838). The version we are
familiar with today is said to have first appreared in print in Poets and
Poetry of Scotland (1876).

Folklore has it that the words were written by a captured Jacobite solider
in Carlisle Castle in 1745. Two soldiers were captured and one lived (took
the high road) and the other was executed. This is a nice addition to
Jacobite folklore, but otherwise is not true."

        -- Leslie Nelson, [broken link] http://www.contemplator.com/folk/lomond.html

(The above link has more on Loch Lomond, the Jacobite uprising, and Scottish
folk music - it's worth a visit).

[Credits]

Thanks to V. Ganesh, for sending in this link:
[broken link] http://people.netscape.com/thaths/wodehouse/
which is 'an attempt by the good folks at alt.fan.wodehouse to collect the
text of all the songs that P.G.,Wodehouse makes cursory references to in his
books'.

The Destruction of Sennacherib -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

Continuing the Bertie Wooster theme...
(Poem #718) 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 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!
-- George Gordon, Lord Byron
           (Pub. 1815)

One of Byron's more memorable poems - it's little wonder Bertie liked
quoting it. From its stirring rhythms to its vivid imagery, with neither a
syllable out of place in the former nor a word in the latter, the poem cries
out to be recited, memorised and quoted at random passersby.

However, after its magnificent opening, the poem lacks a certain something -
excitement, perhaps, or dramatic tension; it has the feel of a painting
rather than a narrative. To see what I mean, compare passages from Horatius,
which has not just the rhythms and images, but the *atmosphere* of a battle.
This difference may well be deliberate, for after all the destruction of
Sennacherib was not via battle; rather

     The might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword
     Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord

Nonetheless, it robs the poem of a certain appeal, and may explain why the
beginning and ending are far better known than the poem itself.

Notes:

Sennacherib is pronounced senak'rib

Here's a summary of the Biblical account on which Byron's poem is based:

  His own account of this invasion, as given in the Assyrian annals, is in
  these words: "Because Hezekiah, king of Judah, would not submit to my
  yoke, I came up against him, and by force of arms and by the might of my
  power I took forty-six of his strong fenced cities; and of the smaller
  towns which were scattered about, I took and plundered a countless number.

  ...

  Hezekiah was not disposed to become an Assyrian feudatory. He accordingly
  at once sought help from Egypt. Sennacherib, hearing of this, marched a
  second time into Palestine. Sennacherib sent envoys to try to persuade
  Hezekiah to surrender, but in vain. He next sent a threatening letter,
  which Hezekiah carried into the temple and spread before the Lord. Isaiah
  again brought an encouraging message to the pious king. "In that night"
  the angel of the Lord went forth and smote the camp of the Assyrians. In
  the morning, "behold, they were all dead corpses." The Assyrian army was
  annihilated.

  This great disaster is not, as was to be expected, taken notice of in the
  Assyrian annals

        -- http://www.htmlbible.com/kjv30/easton/east3273.htm
          (somewhat elided - go read the whole thing)

The last line is noteworthy - the official Assyrian history indeed makes no
mention of the defeat...

  In 701 a rebellion, backed by Egypt, though probably instigated by
  Merodach-Baladan (2 Kings 20:12-18; Isaiah 39:1-7), broke out in
  Palestine. Sennacherib reacted firmly, supporting loyal vassals and taking
  the rebel cities, except for Jerusalem, which, though besieged, was spared
  on payment of a heavy indemnity (2 Kings 18:13-19:36; Isa. 36:1-37:37).
  The biblical narrative has been interpreted as implying two campaigns
  against Jerusalem, but this receives no support from Assyrian sources

        -- EB

Links:

  Sennacherib:
    http://www.htmlbible.com/kjv30/easton/east3273.htm
    http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/5/0,5716,,00.html

  Byron:
    Biography at poem #169
    Other poems:
      Poem #510 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
      Poem #62  So We'll Go No More a-Roving
      Poem #547 The Isles of Greece

Theme:

  As before, if you find the relevant passages from Wodehouse where
  Sennacherib is quoted, do send them in.

-martin