Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! 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 brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand :

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 drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant 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 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, 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 Saint André'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 snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blaz'd 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 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 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 spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath rais'd 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.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S,

EXHIBITION.

AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)

In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy, Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and fea

tures.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade;
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue which at sunrise play'd? Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass;
Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee, if that hand, when arm'd, Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :— Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations;

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,