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XX.

"And such as is the War-god,

The author of thy line,

And such as she who suckled thee,
Even such be thou and thine,
Leave to the soft Campanian

His baths and his perfumes;
Leave to the sordid race of Tyre
Their dyeing-vats and looms;

Leave to the sons of Carthage
The rudder and the oar:

Leave to the Greek his marble Nymphs
And scrolls of wordy lore.

XXI.

"Thine, Roman, is the pilum: Roman, the sword is thine,

The even trench, the bristling mound, The legion's ordered line;

And thine the wheels of triumph,

Which with their laurelled train

Move slowly up the shouting streets
To Jove's eternal fane.

XXII.

"Beneath thy yoke the Volscian
Shall vail his lofty brow;
Soft Capua's curled revellers

Before thy chairs shall bow:

The Lucumoes of Arnus

Shall quake thy rods to see;

And the proud Samnite's heart of steel

Shall yield to only thee.

XXIII.

"The Gaul shall come against thee From the land of snow and night;

Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies To the raven and the kite.

XXIV.

"The Greek shall come against thee,

The conqueror of the East. Beside him stalks to battle

The huge earth-shaking beast, The beast on whom the castle

With all its guards doth stand, The beast who hath between his eyes The serpent for a hand.

First march the bold Epirotes,

Wedged close with shield and spear;

And the ranks of false Tarentum

Are glittering in the rear.

XXV.

"The ranks of false Tarentum

Like hunted sheep shall fly:

In vain the bold Epirotes

Shall round their standards die:

And Apennine's grey vultures

Shall have a noble feast

On the fat and the eyes

Of the huge earth-shaking beast.

XXVI.

"Hurrah! for the good weapons
That keep the War-god's land.
Hurrah! for Rome's stout pilum
In a stout Roman hand.

Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword,
That through the thick array

Of levelled spears and serried shields Hews deep its gory way.

XXVII.

"Hurrah! for the great triumph

That stretches many a mile.

Hurrah! for the wan captives

That pass in endless file.

Ho! bold Epirotes, whither

Hath the Red King ta'en flight?

Ho! dogs of false Tarentum,

Is not the gown washed white?

XXVIII.

Hurrah! for the great triumph
That stretches many a mile.
Hurrah! for the rich dye of Tyre,
And the fine web of Nile,
The helmets gay with plumage

Torn from the pheasant's wings,

The belts set thick with starry gems
That shone on Indian kings,
The urns of massy silver,

The goblets rough with gold,
The many-coloured tablets bright

With loves and wars of old,

The stone that breathes and struggles. The brass that seems to speak;

Such cunning they who dwell on high Have given unto the Greek.

XXIX.

"Hurrah! for Manius Curius,
The bravest son of Rome,

Thrice in utmost need sent forth,
Thrice drawn in triumph home.
Weave, weave, for Manius Curius
The third embroidered gown:

Make ready the third lofty car,

And twine the third green crown;

And yoke the steeds of Rosea

With necks like a bended bow,

And deck the bull, Mevania's bull,

The bull as white as snow.

XXX.

"Blest and thrice blest the Roman
Who sees Rome's brightest day,
Who sees that long victorious pomp
Wind down the Sacred Way,
And through the bellowing Forum,

And round the Suppliant's Grove,

Up to the everlasting gates
Of Capitolian Jove.

XXXI.

"Then where, o'er two bright havens

The towers of Corinth frown;
Where the gigantic King of Day

On his own Rhodes looks down;
Where soft Orontes murmurs

Beneath the laurel shades;

Where Nile reflects the endless length

Of dark-red colonnades;

Where in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts,

Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts;

Where fur-clad hunters wander

Amidst the northern ice;

Where through the sand of morning-land

The camel bears the spice;
Where Atlas flings his shadow

Far o'er the western foam,
Shall be great fear on all who hear
The mighty name of Rome."

MISCELLANEOUS

POEMS.

SONGS OF THE HUGUENOTS.

I.

MONCONTOUR.

OH! weep for Moncontour. Oh! weep for the hour,
When the children of darkness and evil had power;
When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod
On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh! weep for Moncontour. Oh! weep for the slain, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain; Oh! weep for the living, who linger to bear

The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers,

To the row of our vines, and the beds of our flowers;
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
To the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell and for ever, the priest and the slave,
May rule in the paths of the free and the brave;
Our hearths we abandon ;-our lands we resign;-
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but Thine.

II.

IVRY, OR THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

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 of dance,

Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh 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 Henry of Navarre.

Oh how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood.

And good 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.

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