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The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man !
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb !
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by, Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun ! Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
The vassals of his will ;-
For all those trophied arts
Entail'd on human hearts.
‘Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again :
Of pain anew to writhe ;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
E’en I am weary
Behold not me expire.
To see thou shalt not boast.
Receive my parting ghost !
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from Death !
On Nature's awful waste
Of grief that man shall taste-
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS
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 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
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
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 !' "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 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 guid
ing 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 St. 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
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 Rosny has 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
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
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. 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 Saint 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.
ham Sir Patrick Spens
THE king sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine :
To sail this new ship of mine?'
Sat at the king's right knee-
That ever sailed the sea.'
Our king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
Was walking on the strand.