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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
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.
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
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
Ho, maidens of Vienna ! ho, matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who
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 glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of
Beautiful, boundless firmament,
And round the horizon bent,
Arise, and piles built up of old,
In the fierce light and cold.
The eagle soars his utmost height,
The storm has made his airy seat,
His stores of hail and sleet;
Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern ; Earth sends from all her thousand isles
A shout at their return;
The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine,
The airs that fan his way;
The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
May thy blue pillars rise ;
That earth, the proud green earth has not,
WE ARE SEVEN.
With all the forms, and hues, and airs
That haunt her sweetest spot.
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.
What should it know of death ?
She was eight years old, she said ;
That cluster'd round her head.
And she was wildly clad ;
Her beauty made me glad.
How many may you be ?”