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Hucrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of

war.

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King 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 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 has come to marshal us, in all his armor 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, in 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, amid 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 now,-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 St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man;

But out spake gentle Henry, then,-"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 spearmens'

souls.

Ilo! 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 valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

THE DUELLIST'S HONOR.-BISHOP ENGLAND.

HONOR is the acquisition and preservation of the digtity of our nature: that dignity consists in its perfection; that perfection is found in observing the laws of our Creator; the laws of the Creator are the dictates of reason and of religion: that is, the observance of what He teaches us by the natural light of our own minds, and by the special revelations of His will manifestly given. They both concur in teaching us that individuals have not the dominion of their own lives; otherwise, no suicide would be a criminal. They concur in teaching us that we ought to be amenable to the laws of the society of which we are members; otherwise, morality and honor would be con sistent with the violation of law and the disturbance of the social system. They teach us that society cannot continue to exist where the publie tribunals are despised or undervalued, and the redress of injuries withdrawn from the calm regulation of public justice, for the purpose of being committed to the caprice of private passion, and the execution of individual ill-will; therefore, the man of honor abides by the law of God, reveres the statutes of

his country, and is respectful and amenable to its authori. ties. Such, my friends, is what the reflecting portion of mankind has always thought upon the subject of honor. This was the honor of the Greek; this was the honor of the Roman: this the honor of the Jew; this the honor of the Gentile; this, too, was the honor of the Christian, until the superstition and barbarity of Northern devastators darkened his glory and degraded his character.

Man, then, has not power over his own life; much less is he justified in depriving another human being of life. Upon what ground can he who engages in a duel, through the fear of ignominy, lay claim to courage? Unfortunate delinquent! Do you not see by how many links your victim was bound to a multitude of others? Does his vain and idle resignation of his title to life absolve you from the enormous claims which society has upon you for his services, his family for that support, of which you have robbed them, without your own enrichment? Go, stand over that body; call back that soul which you have driven from its tenement; take up that hand which your pride refused to touch, not one hour ago. You have, in your pride and wrath, usurped one prerogative of GodYou have inflicted death. At least, in mercy, attempt the exercise of another; breathe into those distended nostrils, let your brother be once more a living soul! Merciful Father! how powerless are we for good, but how mighty for evil! Wretched man! he does not answer,— he cannot rise. All your efforts to make him breathe are vain. His soul is already in the presence of your common Creator. Like the wretched Cain, will you answer, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Why do you turn away from the contemplation of your own honorable work? Yes, go as far as you will, still the admonition will ring in your ears: It was by your hand he fell! The horrid instrument of death is still in that hand, and the stain of blood upon your soul. Fly, if you will,-go to that house which you have filled with desolation. It is the shriek of his widow, they are the cries of his children,-the broken sobs of his parent;-and, amidst the wailings, you distinctly hear the voice of imprecation on your own guilty head! Will your honorable feelings be content with this? Have you now had abundant and gentlemanly satisfaction?

DD*

PETER'S RIDE TO THE WEDDING.

PETER would ride to the wedding-he would,
So he mounted his ass--and his wife
She was to ride behind, if she could,
“For,” says Peter, "the woman, she should
Follow, not lead through life."

"He's mighty convenient, the ass, my dear,
And proper and safe-and now

You hold by the tail, while I hold by the ear,
And we'll ride to the kirk in time, never fear,

If the wind and the weather allow."

The wind and the weather were not to be blamed,

But the ass had adopted the whim,

That two at a time was a load never framed

For the back of one ass, and he seemed quite ashamed That two should stick fast upon him.

"Come, Dobbin," says Peter, "I'm thinking we'll trot.' "I'm thinking we won't," says the ass,

In language of conduct, and stuck to the spot
As if he had shown he would sooner be shot
Than lift up a toe from the grass.

Says Peter, says he, “I'll whip him a little,”— "Try it, my dear," says she,—

But he might just as well have whipped a brass kettle; The ass was made of such obstinate mettle

That never a step moved he.

"I'll prick him, my dear, with a needle," said she,
"I'm thinking he'll alter his mind,”-

The ass felt the needle, and up went his heels;
"I'm thinking," says she, "he's beginning to feel
Some notion of moving-behind."

"Now lend me the needle and I'll prick his ear,
And set t'other end, too, agoing."

The ass felt the needle, and upward he reared;
But kicking and rearing was all, it appeared,
He had any intention of doing.

Says Peter, says he, "We get on rather slow;

While one end is up t'other sticks to the ground; But I'm thinking a method to move him I know, Let's prick head and tail together, and so

Give the creature a start all around."

So said, so done; all hands were at work,
And the ass he did alter his mind,
For he started away with so sudden a jerk,
That in less than a trice he arrived at the kirk,
But he left all his lading behind.

THE PHANTOM ISLES.-JOHN MONSELL,

IN the Bay of New York there are many small islands, the frequent resort of summer pleasure-parties. One of the dangers haunting these scenes of amusement is that high tides often cover the islands. The incidents recorded in the following lines actually took place under the circumstances mentioned, and the entire change in the heart and life of the bereaved father makes the simple story as instructive as it is interesting and touching.

THE Phantom Isles are fading from the sea;

The groups that thronged them leave their sinking shores; And shout and laugh, and jocund catch and glee

Ring through the mist, to beat of punctual oars, Through the gray mist that comes up with the tide, And covers all the ocean far and wide.

Of the gay revellers one child alone

Was wanting at the roll's right merry call;
From boat to boat they sought him; he was gone,
And fear and trembling filled the hearts of all;
For the damp mist was falling fast the while,
And the sea, rising, swallowing up each isle.

The trembling father guides the searching band,
While every sinew, hope and fear can strain,
Is stretched to bring the quiv'ring boat to land,
And find the lost one, but is stretched in vain :
No land they find, but one sweet call they hear,
'Steer this way, father! this way, father dear !"

That voice they follow, certain they have found,
But vainly sweep the waters o'er and o'er;
The whisp'ring waves have ceased their rippling sound:
Their silence telling they have lost their shore:
Yet still the sweet young voice cries loud and clear,
"Steer this way, father! this way, father dear!"

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