Fresh conquests he was planning there To grace the future day.

King Henry lifted up his eyes
The intruder to behold;

With reverence he the hermit saw,
For the holy man was old,
His look was gentle as a saint's,
And yet his eye was bold.

“Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs
Which thou hast done this land!
O king, repent in time, for know
The judgment is at hand.

I have passed forty years of peace
Beside the river Blaise,

But what a weight of woe hast thou
Laid on my latter days!

I used to see along the stream
The white sail sailing down,
That wafted food in better times
To yonder peaceful town.

Henry! I never now behold

The white sail sailing down; Famine, Disease, and Death, and thou Destroy that wretched town.

I used to hear the traveller's voice
As here he passed along,

Or maiden as she loitered home

Singing her even song.

Henry V. and the Hermit.

No traveller's voice may now be heard,
In fear he hastens by,

But I have heard the village maid

In vain for succour cry.

I used to see the youths row down
And watch the dripping oar,
As pleasantly their viol's tones
Came softened to the shore.

King Henry, many a blackened corpse
I now see floating down!
Thou bloody man! repent in time
And leave this leaguered town."

"I shall go on," King Henry cried,
"And conquer this good land,
Seest thou not, Hermit, that the Lord
Hath given it to my hand?"

The Hermit heard King Henry speak,
And angrily looked down;-

His face was gentle, and for that
More solemn was his frown.

"What if no miracle from heaven
The murderer's arm control,

Think you for that the weight of blood
Lies lighter on his soul?

Thou conqueror king, repent in time
Or dread the coming woe!

For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat,
And soon shalt feel the blow !"

23

King Henry forced a careless smile,
As the Hermit went his way;
But Henry soon remembered him

Upon his dying day.

SOUTHEY.

WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

OW 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 daughters.
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.

Hurah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurah! hurrah! for Ivry* and King Henry of Navarre ! †

Oh! 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 blood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne ‡ was in the midst, a truncheon in his
hand;

+ Henry IV.

* Ivry near Dreux. The battle was fought 1590. The Duke of Mayenne, who commanded the army of the League.

War of the League.

25

And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's impurpled

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 armour dressed, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallan

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

"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 St. Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge by 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 ;

* A species of ancient cannon.

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 of vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to

man.

But out spoke 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 cf 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 tonight.

*The Governor of Paris.

+ Count Egmont, commander of the Flemish troops sent by Philip II. Paris, St. Genevieve being the patron saint of the city.