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Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll’d 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
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
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 we 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 rush'd, while,
like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blaz’d 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, 66 Remember St Bartholomew,” was pass'd 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 crush'd the tyrant, our God
hath rais'd the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the va
lour of the brave.
Then glory to his Holy name, from whom all
glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI's
EXHIBITION. And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a
story !) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy,
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune ; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground,
Mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and fea
Tell us-for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade; Then say what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue which at sunrise play'd ? Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb’d with Pharaoh glass to glass; Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,
Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass ;
I need not ask thee, if that hand, when arm’d,
Has any Roman soldier mauld and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm’d,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run.
Since first thy form was in this box extended,
New worlds have risen--we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering
tread, O’erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?
If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold :A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd : Have children climb'd those knees and kiss'd
that face? What was thy name and station, age and race ?
Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead !
Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecay'd within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever ?
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.