Irish Protestant letters, etc., etc. By R. R. B. Dublin: Also, an address on Ireland, the cradle of European literature. By Rev. J. B. Finlay ... To which is added a choice collection of original and selected poetry

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De Witt & Davenport, 1855 - English poetry - 166 pages
 

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Page 108 - 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.
Page 108 - 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.
Page 35 - He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes Were with his heart, 'and that was far away. He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Daci.an mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday! — All this rushed with his blood. — Shall he expire And unavenged? — Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!
Page 108 - 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, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Page 108 - 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.
Page 76 - As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Page 156 - Nothing can convince tyrants of their folly but gunpowder and steel, so put your trust in God my boys and keep your powder dry.
Page 123 - 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...
Page 108 - 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!
Page 34 - This is my own, my native land ?" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign stand?

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