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And stamped on childhood's brow so mild
That withering blight, the drunkard's child.

Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look upon the wine-cup's glow,
See if its beauty can atone;
Think if its flavor you will try,

When all proclaim, ""T is drink, and die."

Tell me I hate the bowl

Hate is a feeble word:
I loathe abhor-my very soul
With strong disgust is stirred,
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell
Of the dark beverage of hell.

SONG OF THE HUSKERS.-WHITTIER.

HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard,
Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from the glossy green,
The cluster from the vine.

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,
Our ploughs their furrows made,

While o'er the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.

All through the long bright days of June,
Its leaves grew strong and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon,
Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest time has come;
We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gifts
Apollo showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk,
Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured.

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless the farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessings of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn.

And let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us for His golden corn

Send up our thanks to God!

IVRY.-A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.--MACAULAY.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

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 looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled
flood,

And good Coligni'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, all in his armor 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 rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our Lord, the
King."

"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 Saint 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! 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 rushed, 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 heaped 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 man.
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?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to

day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne ;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall re

turn.

Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's

souls.

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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the

slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.-CROLY.

CONSCRIPT fathers!

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right-let him show proofs-
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;-I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

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