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And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Ivry. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories

LOW

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 corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O 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 daugh

ters; 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 !

0! 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 empur

pled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbied with his blood;

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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;
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, a deafening shout: God save our lord the

king! And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody frayPress 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 steel, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul-

verin.
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 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"O! 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 Lor

raine. 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

return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear

men'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;

MONCONTOUR.

73

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 !

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

Moncontour.-A Song of the Huguenots. OH !

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 slaughtered 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 decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearman 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 fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the songs of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and forever! 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 at no altar but thine !

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

Burial of Sir John Moore. NOT

OT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried,

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And our lanterns dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him !

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,

In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

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