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 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; 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 mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody frayPress 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 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 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 snowwhite 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, "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 spearmen'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! Thomas B. Macaulay. LANGSYNE. LANGSYNE!-how doth the word come back Langsyne!—the days of childhood warm, Each sight and sound had power to charm, Langsyne!—yes, in the sound I hear Langsyne!-ah, where are they who shared Of death; while others scattered far Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star, Langsyne!-the heart can never be THE RAINBOW. HIGH in the airy element there hung D. M. Moir. As though his purer waves from heaven sprung, Beneath those sunny banks a darker cloud, With the resplendence from her beauty gain'd, About her head a cypress heaven she wore, Yet strange it was so many stars to see, Over her hung a canopy of state, Not of rich tissue nor of spangled gold, Shooting their sparks at Phoebus would rebound, Fletcher. THE GRASP OF THE DEAD. 'Twas in the battle field, and the cold pale moon And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, With his father's sword in his red right hand, Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, |