Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array:
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!
And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save

King!"

our lord the "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
"Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies now-upon them with the lance!"
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail;
And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to mar
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearsmen's souls!

2

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

(By permission of Messrs. Longman, Green and Co.)

THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY.

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

[Mr. Thornbury's "Lays and Legends of the New World," and "Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads," both prove that he has studied to advantage. In prose he has written the "History of the Buccaneers," and "Shakspeare's England"-works which exhibit great research, and breathe a pure antiquarian spirit. A successful novel, entitled "Every Man his own Trumpeter," and numerous contributions to the leading magazines, make up the rest of his literary labours. Mr. Thornbury was born in 1828; died 1876.]

"Twas the day beside the Pyramids,

It seems but an hour ago,

That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares,
Returning blow for blow.

The Mamelukes were tossing

Their standards to the sky,

When I heard a child's voice say, "My men,

Teach me the way to die !” 、

'Twas a little drummer, with his side

Torn terribly with shot;

But still he feebly beat his drum,
As though the wound were not.
And when the Mamelukes' wild horse
Burst with a scream and cry,
He said, "O men of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!

"My mother has got other sons,

With stouter hearts than mine,

But none more ready blood for France

To pour out free as wine.

Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned.

"Fair are this earth and sky;

Then comrades of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!"

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,
Wiping his burning eyes-

It was by far more pitiful

Than mere loud sobs and cries:

One bit his cartridge till his lip
Grew black as winter sky,

But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

O never saw I sight like that!
The sergeant flung down flag,
Even the fifer bound his brow
With a wet and bloody rag,

Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,
But never made reply,
Until he sobbed out once again,

"Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a shout that flew to God,
They strode into the fray :

I saw their red plumes join and wave,
But slowly melt away.

The last who went-a wounded man-
Bade the poor boy good-bye,
And said, "We men of the Forty-third
Teach you the way to die!"

I never saw so sad a look

As the poor youngster cast,
When the hot smoke of cannon
In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.
Earth shook, and Heaven answered:
I watched his eagle eye,

As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third
Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a musket for a crutch,

He leaped into the fight;

I, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might, But, proudly beating on his drum, A fever in his eye,

66

I heard him moan The Forty-third
Taught me the way to die!"

They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's
Who at his bidding bled.

They hung a medal round his neck,

And closed his dauntless eye; On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third Taught him the way to die!"

'Tis forty years from then till nowThe grave gapes at my feet

Yet when I think of such a boy

I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry,

And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

(By permission of the Author.)

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

THOMAS HOOD.

[See p. 431.]

'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 between 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.