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Roll - roll ! “ Brothers, what do ye here,
Slowly and sadly as ye pass along,
“ Comrade! we bear a bier !
I saw him fall !
And wept beside his pall ! ” G. W. Patten.
THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are !
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land
of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; 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 !
0! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
He looked upon his People, and a tear was in his eye ;
King !” « And if
standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of
war, Ana be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.”
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
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 fields are heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven
mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van “ Remember Saint Bartholemew !” was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, then, “ No Frenchman is my foe Down, down with every foreigner ! but let your brethren go." O! 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 !
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 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 valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre !
T. B. Macaulay.
THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.
SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb’d away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, “ I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen at Bingen on the Rhine.
“ Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd
around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And ’midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ; And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine !
“ Tell my
mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage ; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine!
my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gal
lant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and
mine), For the honor of old Bingen dear Bingen on the Rhine !
“ There's another not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her
eye ; Too innocent for coquetry,
too fond for idle scorning, Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen - fair Bingen on the Rhine !
I saw the blue Rhine sweep along - I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly
talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the
His voice grew faint and hoarser,
grasp was childish weak, His
eyes put on a dying look he sighed and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land
was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to
shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine !
“GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.”
VIVE me three grains of corn, mother,
Only three grains of corn ;
Till the coming of the morn.
Dying of hunger and cold,
My lips have never told.
It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood,
Gnawing for lack of food.
And the sight was heaven to see,
had no bread for me.
How could I look to you, mother,
How could I look to you,
When you were starving too ?
And in your eye so wild,