That hive in the hedges in the cold of the day:[311]
The sun is risen, they are fled,
And one knows not the place where they be.
Asleep are thy shepherds, O king of Assyria,
Thy nobles do slumber;[312]
Thy people are strewn on the mountains,
Without any to gather.
There is no healing of thy wreck,
Fatal thy wound!
All who hear the bruit of thee shall clap the hand