The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man !
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rested in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb !

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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 ;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will ;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day :

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

‘Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again :
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe ;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.


E’en I am weary


To watch thy fading fire ;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, -
The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost !
* This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb’d the grave of Victory,-

And took the sting from Death !
'Go, Sun, while. Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God !'




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

of war,

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of

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

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

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 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


point of

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 :
O whare will I get a skeely skipper

To sail this new ship of mine?'
O up and spake an eldern knight,

Sat at the king's right knee-
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor

That ever sailed the sea.'


Our king has written a braid letter,

And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,

Was walking on the strand.


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