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The wood was passed through, and no switch yet selected,
IVRY.* (By permission of Messrs. Longman, Green, & Co.) Now 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, oh pleasant i land of France. And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 1 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
* The Battle of Ivry was won by Henry IV., King of France and Navarre, over the leaders of the League, in 1590,
Hurrah ! nürrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of
war ; Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and 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 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 empur
pled 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 rolled from wing to
wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our lord
the king.” “An' 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 And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Offife, 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, upon them with the lance.
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand
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, 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 on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to 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 Navarrel Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France
to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Roxy hath ta’en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine. Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may
know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought
his Church such woe, Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest
point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna ; Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall
ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.
Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles,
men'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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised
the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the
brave. Then giory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre !
ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.
Lost ! lost ! lost !
A gem of countless price,
And graved in Paradise ;
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
All changeful as the light.
In fashion's mazes wind,
Leaving a sting behind.
A golden harp to buy,
To deathless minstrelsy.
I feel all search is vain ;
Can ne'er be mine again.
For, till these heart-strings sever,
Is reft away for ever.
THE HEATHEN CHINEE:
And my language is plain-
And for tricks that are vain,
And I shall not deny,
What that name might imply ;
And quite soft was the skies
That Ah Sin was likewise;
And Ah Sir took a hand :
He did not understand ;
In a way that I grieve,
At the state of Nye's sleeve,