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THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour

drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest;

[eye; He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was

stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd 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 frayPress where ye see my white plume shine, amid

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 St. 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 !

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 61 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 Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of

Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ; Mayenne

has turned his rein; D'Aumale has 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 of vengeance, and all along

our van, “ Remember St. Bartholomew !” was passed from man to man.

[my foe; But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.”

[in war, Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or 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 62

never shall return.

THE SKIES. 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 the tyrant, our God

hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the

valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy Name, from whom all

glories are; And glcry to our sovereign lord, King Henry of

Navarre !

MACAULAY.

THE SKIES.
Ay, gloriously thou standest there,

Beautiful, boundless firmament,
That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,

And round the horizon bent,
With thy bright vault and sapphire wall,
Dost overhang and circle all.
Far, far below thee, tall old trees

Arise, and piles built up of old,
And hills whose ancient summits freeze

In the fierce light and cold.

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The eagle soars his utmost height,
Yet far thou stretchest o’er his flight.
Thou hast thy frowns—with thee on high

The storm has made his airy seat,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie

His stores of hail and sleet;
Thence the consuming lightnings break,
There the strong hurricanes awake.
Yet art thou prodigal of smiles —

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern ; Earth sends from all her thousand isles

A shout at their return;
The glory that comes down from thee
Bathes in deep joy the land and sea.
The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine,

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine,

The airs that fan his way;
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there
The meek moon walks the silent air.
The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
And lovely round the Grecian coast

May thy blue pillars rise ;
I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.
And they are fair—a charm is theirs,

That earth, the proud green earth has not,

64

WE ARE SEVEN.

With all the forms, and hues, and airs

That haunt her sweetest spot.
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere,
And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh, when, amid the throng of men,

The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us then

Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast For seats of innocence and rest !

BRYANT.

WE ARE SEVEN.
A SIMPLE child,
That lightly draws its breath,
That feels its life in ev'ry breath-

What should it know of death ?
I met a little cottage-girl ;

She was eight years old, she said ;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,

That cluster'd round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air,

And she was wildly clad ;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair-

Her beauty made me glad.
“ Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be ?”

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