THE LION. Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, "No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 177 Sir W. Scott. THE LION. HIGH in the street, o'erlooking all the place, Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight But sign and pledge of welcome and delight: To him the noblest guest the town detains, Flies for repast, and in his court remains; N 178 THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE. Him too the crowd with longing looks admire, The ample yards on either side contain The care of empire, and observant reigns; O'er all within the lady-hostess rules, Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools; Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite "Your honour's servant-Mister Smith, good night." Crabbe. THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE. THE King is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE. 179 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 coming. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint 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 for 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 snowwhite crest; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, 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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. 180 THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew !" was pass'd 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 hair for those who never shall return. your 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 be bright; your arms 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 mock'd 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! Macaulay. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught, And simple truth his utmost skill: AN INDIAN AT HIS FATHERS' BURYING-PLACE. Whose passions not his masters are, Of public fame, or private breath: Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed, Who God doth late and early pray, With a religious book or friend! This man is freed from servile bands Wotton. AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF Ir is the spot I came to seek My fathers' ancient burial-place, It is the spot-I know it well- 181 |