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,

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

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 Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin!

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 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 snowwhite 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 St. 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 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.

LORD MACAULAY.

IO.

THE ARMADA.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;

I sing 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 in

Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day,

There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth bay;

The 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 Edgecumbe's lofty

hall;

Many a light 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:

The 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 gaily dance the

bells,

As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon

swells.

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient

crown,

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies

down!

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield.

So glared he went at Agincourt in wrath he turned to

bay,

And crushed, and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff 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 fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed 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;