Lie tombs and temples, columns, baths, and towers. In all her charms the beauteous wilderness, And bids her gayest flowerets twine and bloom With roses here she decks the untrodden path, * The acanthus spreading foliage here she weaves Advance, and wander on through crumbling halls, Through weeds and moss the half-seen painting shines, Renown more wide, more bright shall gild thy name, You in whose breasts the flames of Pindus beamed, The capital of the Corinthian pillar is carved, as is well known, in imitation of the acanthus. Mons. de Chateaubriand, as I have found since this Poem was written, has employed the same image in his Travels. It is the custom of the modern Greeks to adorn corpses profusely with flowers. VOL. III. 47 Bend, glorious spirits, from your blissful bowers, The stately buskin and the tuneful lyre, Each grace of Virgil's lyre or Tully's page. Shall spread where'er the Muse has reared her throne, The well-known name of Attila. BATTLE OF IVRY. [Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed by a large part of his subjects under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, "My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying-" Save the French! and his clemency added a number of the enemies to liis own army.-Aikin's Biographical Dictionary.] 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 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 King 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; 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. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest; He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King." "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guid ing 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 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 then, "No Frenchman is my Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, 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. Généviève, 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. THE ARMADA. ATTEND, all ye who list to hear It was about the lovely close There came a gallant merchant-ship Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, Beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, Lie heaving many a mile. |