The wood was passed through, and no switch yet selected, When "six o'clock" suddenly Hal recollected, 66 And took out his watch ;-but ten minutes to spare! As to sharpen her knife for the very first stick; But, for one good enough, it were best not o'erlook it, Lest, in seeking too straight ones, you get but the crooked. Samuel Lover. 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 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. *The Battle of Ivry was won by Henry IV., King of France and Navarre, over the leaders of the League, in 1590, Hurrah! nurrah! 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, 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 empurpled 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 of war, 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. Andrè'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 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, 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 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? 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 return. ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 103 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 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 glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! Macaulay. ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. Lost! lost! lost! A gem of countless price, Lost-where the thoughtless throng Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. Lost! lost! lost! I feel all search is vain ; For, till these heart-strings sever, 104 THE HEATHEN CHINEE. But when the sea and land Who judgeth quick and dead; That man can ne'er repair, THE HEATHEN CHINEE: OR, PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. And my language is plain— And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name, And I shall not deny, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and child-like, And quite soft was the skies. That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William Which we had a small game, But he smiled as he sat by the table, Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, |