Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

60

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

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 fray— Press 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. 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!

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

61

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

man to man.

our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from [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 never shall return.

62

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 glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre !

THE SKIES.

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.

THE SKIES.

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,

63

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!

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?

BRYANT.

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?"

« ÎnapoiContinuă »