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! O how our hearts were beating when, at the dawn of day, 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, in all his armor drest, 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, All down our line, a 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 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guidingstar, 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 And then we, tho on vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember Saint 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? 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 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 crusht 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! SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS BY JOHN MILTON When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, THE LAST HOUR BY SUSAN COOLIDGE If I were told that I must die to-morrow, Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do? I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter But rise and move, and love and smile and pray And lying down at night for a last sleeping, Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping, And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still, I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, All the night long; and when the morning splendor I think that I could smile-could calmly say, But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder On which my life was writ, and I with wonder To a long century's end its mystic clue, What could I do, O blest Guide and Master, Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, The road, altho so very long it be, |