settest thyself afore others.

Continual peace is with the meek man, but in the heart of the proud man
are often envy and indignation.

Thomas a Kempis was born in the latter part of the fourteenth
century and lived to a good old age. His name in full was Thomas
Haemercken, but as he was born in the town of Kempen he has been
generally known by the title above given. The _Imitation_ was
written slowly, a little at a time, and as the result of reading,
reflection and prayer.

The very brief selections given above are condensed from the first
ten chapters of the first book. While in the main following the
best translation of the original, the language has been simplified
in a few places.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

_By_ LORD BYRON

NOTE.--Byron takes for granted his readers' knowledge of the events
with which this poem deals; that is, he does not tell the whole
story. Indeed, he gives us very few facts. Is there, for instance,
in the poem any hint as to who Sennacherib was, or as to who the
enemy was that the Assyrians came against? But if we turn to the
eighteenth and nineteenth chapters of _Second Kings_, we shall find
the whole account of Sennacherib, king of Assyria, and his
expedition against the Hebrew people. The climax of the story, with
which this poem deals, is to be found in _Second Kings_, xix, 35.

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 wither'd and strown.

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 wax'd 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 roll'd 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;