The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along drest; our van, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his Remember Saint Bartholomew ! was passed from gallant crest. Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, 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 Rosny 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. Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar-Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host ing 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, 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. Charge for the golden lilies-upon them with the Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne— lance! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who And hark! like the roar of the billows on the And he shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line: For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the - he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war! Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search se cure; The furious German comes, with his clarions and Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broadhis drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall. They are here they rush on- we are broken we are gone— Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, right! and hell, and fate? And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades? Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths? Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? Down! down! for ever down, with the mitre and the crown! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope! Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Dur row: Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; ham's stalls; The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope. And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil- And tremble when she thinks on the edge of And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the word! LORD MACAULAY. |