Now by the lips of those ye 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 rushed, while like a guiding star,

Amid 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?

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 has 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.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry 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, 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.

The Glove and the Lions.

"The Glove and the Lions" was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of "fair" women. A woman should be a "true knight" as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859).

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,

And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;

The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,

And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed:

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,

Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;

Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,-a beauteous lively dame

With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem'd the same:

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be;

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is

divine;

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild:

His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat:

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

LEIGH HUNt.

The Well of St. Keyne.

I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England-not the poem, but the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Fouthey (1774-1843).

A WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west-country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne:
Pleasant it was to his eye,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

And bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.