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And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
Ivry. 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 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,
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;
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, 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
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
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
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
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-
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
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,
One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers,
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
Farewell, and forever! The priest and the slave
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,
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;
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 ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!