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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 reinD'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;
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 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 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 !
TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight,
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
When, o'er the green undeluged earth,
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth,
To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Be still the poet's theme.
The Earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs,
How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town!
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
That first spoke peace to man.
A BOAT RACE, AND WRECK OF A BOAT.
ONE gusty day, now stormy and now still,
The strife continued : in a glass we saw
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
DARK is the night-how dark! No light! no fire !
“Hush! 'Tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there !-he's there!
“Yet I'll not curse him. No! 'Tis all in vain ! 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child! My child! Oh fiend !”—The clock strikes two.
“Can he desert us thus ? He knows I stay,
They're gone! they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled !
I KNEW my father's chimney top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye,
Between me and the winter sky.
Wayworn I traced the homeward track,
My wayward youth had left with joy ;