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 Andre'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 turn'd 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 pass'd 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 Vienne!
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 St. Genevieve, Keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crush'd thy 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.
THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LON
To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers! To horse for church and crown!
Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears ! And ho for London town!
The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey
To our avenging fires,
Sends up the voice of her dismay From all her hundred spires.
The Strand resounds with maiden's shrieks, The 'Change with merchants' sighs,
And blushes stand on brazen cheeks, And tears in iron eyes;
And, pale with fasting and with fright, Each Puritan committee
Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight The Roundheads of the city.
And soon shall London's sentries hear The thunder of our drum, And London's dames, in wilder fear, Shall cry, Alack! They come! Fling the fascines;-tear up the spikes; And forward, one and all.
Down, down with all their train-band pikes, Down with their mud-built wall.
Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud! No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys. No quarter! Think on Laud. What ho! The craven slaves retire. On! Trample them to mud, No quarter! Charge. No quarter! Fire. No quarter! Blood! blood! blood!-
Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch,
Brave lads, to tell us where, Sure London's sons be passing rich, Her daughters wondrous fair: And let that dastard be the theme Of many a board's derision, Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream Of any sweet precisian.
Their lean divines, of solemn brow, Sworn foes to throne and steeple,
From an unwonted pulpit now Shall edify the people:
Till the tired hangman, in despair, Shall curse his blunted shears, And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear, Around their leathern ears.
We'll hang, above his own Guildhall, The city's grave Recorder, And on the den of thieves we'll fall, Though Pym should speak to order. In vain the lank-hair'd gang shall try To cheat our martial law;
In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry That strangers must withdraw.
Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair, We'll build a glorious pyre, And tons of rebel parchment there Shall crackle in the fire.
With them shall perish, cheek by jowl, Petition, psalm, and libel, The colonel's canting muster-roll, The chaplain's dog-ear'd Bible.
We'll tread a measure round the blaze Where England's pest expires, And lead along the dance's maze The beauties of the friars:
Then smiles in every face shall shine, And joy in every soul.
Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, And crown the largest bowl.
And as with nod and laugh ye sip The goblet's rich carnation, Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip
The wink of invitation;
Drink to those names, those glorious names,
Those names no time shall sever,Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames, Our church and king for ever!
ATTEND all ye who list to hear Our noble England's praise! I tell of the thrice famous deeds She wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible Against her bore in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, The stoutest hearts of Spain.
It was about the lovely close Of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship Full sail to Plymouth Bay;
Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet Beyond Aurigny's Isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves, Lie heaving many a mile; At sunrise she escaped their van, By God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, Had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun Was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof Of Edgecombe's lofty hall, And many a fishing-bark put out, To pry along the coast,
And with loose rein and bloody spur, Rode inland many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted, The stout old Sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers, Before him sound the drums;
His yeomen round the market-cross Make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up The standard of her grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal, And gayly dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind The royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the seas Lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw Treads the gay lilies down! So stalk'd he when he turn'd to flight, On that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, Genga's bow, And Cæsar's eagle shield; So glared he when at Agincourt In wrath he turn'd to bay,
And crush'd and torn beneath his claws
The princely hunters lay.
Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight,- Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids- Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute- Ho! gallants, draw your blades; Thou sun, shine on her joyously; Ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious Semper eadem- The banner of our pride.
The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd That banner's massy fold- The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd That haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach,
And on the purple sea- Such night in England ne'er had been, Nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, From Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright And busy as the day;
For swift to east and swift to west, The warning radiance spread- High on St. Michael's Mount it shone-
It shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, Along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, Those twinkling points of fire; The fisher left his skiff to rock
On Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners pour'd to war From Mendip's sunless caves. O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, The fiery herald flew;
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, The rangers of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night Rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse Had met on Clifton down; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate Look'd forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill The streak of blood-red light.
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar The death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry,
The royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates Arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clash'd From all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower, Peal'd loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames Sent back a louder cheer;
And from the farthest wards was heard
The rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes Dash'd down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, And louder still the din,
As fast from every village round
The horse came spurring in:
And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath,
The warlike errand went,
And roused in many an ancient hall, The gallant 'squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills, Flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hempstead's swarthy moor, They started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, Untired they bounded still;
All night from tower to tower they sprang
They sprang from hill to hill, Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag O'er Darwin's rocky dales- Till like volcanoes flared to heaven, The stormy hills of Wales- Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze On Malvern's lonely height, Till stream'd in crimson on the wind The Wrekin's crest of light- Till broad and fierce the star came forth
On Ely's stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms O'er all the boundless plain-
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces The sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on, O'er the wide vale of Trent-
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd
On Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused The burghers of Carlisle!
Он! weep for Moncontour. Oh! weep for the hour
When the children of darkness
And evil had power;
When the horsemen of Valois
Triumphantly trod
On the bosoms that bled
For their rights and their God.
Oh! weep for Moncontour. Oh weep for the slain
Who for faith and for freedom Lay slaughter'd in vain. Oh! weep for the living, Who linger to bear The renegade's shame, Or the exile's despair.
One look, one last look,
To the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines, And the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones Of our fathers decay'd, Where we fondly had deem'd That our own should be laid.
Alas! we must leave thee, Dear desolate home, To the spearmen of Uri, The shavelings of Rome, To the serpent of Florence, The vulture of Spain, To the pride of Anjou, And the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountain, Farewell to thy shades, To the song of thy youths, And the dance of thy maids. To the breath of thy garden, The hum of thy bees, And the long waving line Of the blue Pyrenees. Farewell, and for ever.
The priest and the slave May rule in the halls
Of the free and the brave;
Our hearths we abandon ;- Our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel To no altar but thine.
MR. MOIR was born about the beginning of the present century. He is a physician, and resides at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. Under the signature of DELTA, he has been for many years one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine; and he has published, besides one or two volumes of poems, Outlines of the Ancient History of
A LOVER TO HIS BETROTHED.
SUMMER was on the hills when last we parted, Flowers in the vale, and beauty on the sky; Our hearts were true, although our hopes were thwarted;
Forward, with wistful eye, [sweet Scarce half-resign'd we look'd, yet thought how 'Twould be again in after months to meet.
And months have pass'd: now the bright moon is shining
O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea, As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining, I pause remembering thee,
Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm
As through these wilds we wandered arm in arm.
Yes! as we roam'd the sylvan earth seem'd glowing With many a beauty unremark'd before: The soul was like a deep urn overflowing With thoughts, a treasured store; The very flowers seem'd born but to exhale, As breath'd the West, their fragrance to the gale. Methinks I see thee yet-thy form of lightness, An angel phantom gliding through the trees, Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness, Thy tresses in the breeze Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made, So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade.
Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers,
With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers As, fondly leant to thine, I told how life all pleasureless would be, Green palm-tree of earth's desert! wanting thee. Not yet, not yet had disappointment shrouded
Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded, And Fancy colour'd life
With those elysian rainbow-hues, which Truth Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth.
Where art thou now? I look around, but see not The features and the form that haunt my dreams! Where art thou now? I listen, but for me, not The deep rich music streams
Medicine, The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh, A Memoir of John Galt, and other works in prose. In his poems he alludes to frequent domestic misfortunes. Casa's Dirge, Wee Willie, and other pieces, breathe a pure and simple pathos, and his writings, generally, are characterized by much delicacy and grace.
Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow A zest to pleasure, and a balm to wo:- I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting Through the green branches of the casement tree;
To list thy voice my lonely ear is thirsting, Beside the moonlit sea:
Vain are my longings, my repinings vain; Sleep only gives thee to my arms again.
Yet should it cheer me, that nor wo hath shatter'd
The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate, nor Wrath, And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scatter'd All shadows from our path;
And visions be fulfill'd, by Hope adored, In thee, the long-lost, to mine arms restored. Ah! could I see thee!-see thee, were it only But for a moment looking bliss to me! Ah! could I hear thee!-desolate and lonely Is life deprived of thee:
I start from out my revery, to know That hills between us rise, and rivers flow! Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm, All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing
With thee life's storm or calm;
For, ah! with others' wealth and mirth would be Less sweet by far than sorrow shared with thee! Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon
That happiness resides in outward shows: Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon True Love to sweet repose:
For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart, When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart.
Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging The eyes and heart from each familiar spot: Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing, So that thou changest not!
I would not that the love which owes its birth To heaven, should perish, like the things of earth! Adieu! as falls the flooding moonlight round me,
Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head! May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me, Flee from thy path and bed!
Be every thought that stirs and hour that flies, Sweet as thy smile, and radiant as thine eyes!
FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest, Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well! He, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee Back with him and his to dwell.
Fifteen moons their silver lustre Only o'er thy brow had shed, When thy spirit join'd the seraphs, And thy dust the dead.
Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling Shone thy presence bright and calm! Thou didst add a zest of pleasure;
To our sorrows thou wert balm ;Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach.
As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel,
Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Half in hope and half affright, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light.
Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky, When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us, That our child was doom'd to die! Through each long night-watch, the taper Show'd the hectic of thy cheek; And each anxious dawn beheld thee
More worn out, and weak.
'Twas even then Destruction's angel Shook his pinions o'er our path, Seized the rosiest of our household, And struck Charlie down in death- Fearful, awful, Desolation
On our lintel set his sign;
And we turn'd from his sad death-bed Willie, round to thine!
As the beams of Spring's first morning Through the silent chamber play'd, Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, And in thy small coffin laid; Ere the day-star with the darkness Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven!
Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth; Two asleep lie buried under- Three for us yet gladden earth: Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie, Willie, thee our snow-drop pure, Back to us shall second spring-time Never more allure!
Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! Of how dear ye were to us,
Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Haunt our troubled spirits thus? Why, across the cold dim churchyard Flit our visions of despair ? Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel Says, "Ye are not there!"
Where then are ye? With the Saviour Blest, for ever blest, are ye, Mid the sinless, little children,
Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest!
We are wicked-we are weary- For us pray, and for us plead; God, who ever hears the sinless, May through you the sinful heed; Pray that, through Christ's mediation, All our faults may be forgiven; Plead that ye be sent to greet us At the gates of Heaven!
'Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perish'd; and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. "Tis midnight; and wide o'er the regions of riot Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, sooth'd from revel and lull'd into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,
To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest; A downcast regret through themind slowly steals; But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust; Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust;
The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,
Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold: Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his an
That the heart may be widow'd before it be old! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to depart;
But oh! Disappointment has poison and power To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart! How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed! Let the storms of adversity lower,-'tis in vain, Though friendsshould forsake me and foes should condemn;
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