And stamped on childhood's brow so mild Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know When all proclaim, ""T is drink, and die." Tell me I hate the bowl Hate is a feeble word: SONG OF THE HUSKERS.-WHITTIER. HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard, No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, 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 All through the long bright days of June, And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, And bear the treasure home. There, richer than the fabled gifts Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, Let vapid idlers loll in silk, Give us the bowl of samp and milk, Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Who will not thank the kindly earth, Then shame on all the proud and vain, And let the good old crop adorn 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, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; The King is come to marshal us, all in his armor drest, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. "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, 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, 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. 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. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.-CROLY. CONSCRIPT fathers! I do not rise to waste the night in words; |