The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail; And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember St. Bartholomew," was pass'd 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 !

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return. Ho! Phillip, 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 Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward

to-night! For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave, And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and 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!


The author of this sweet poem is, we are informed, Mrs. C. TINSLEY. It was suggested by seeing a child asleep with flowers in its hand.

BLESSED be God for flowers !
For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts that breathe
From out their odorous beauty, like a wreath

Of sunshine on life's hours !

Lightly upon thine eye
Hath fallen the noontide sleep, my joyous bird ;
And through thy parted lips the breath, scarce heard,

Comes, like a summer sigh.

One rosy hand is thrown
Beneath thy rosier cheek, the other holds
A group of sweet field flowers, whose bloom unfolds

A freshness, like thine own.

Around the fragrant prize
With eager grasp, thy little fingers close ;
What are the dreams that haunt thy sweet repose,

What radiance greets thine eyes ?

For thou art smiling still ;
Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods,
Plucking th' expanded cups and bursting buds,

At thine unfetter'd will?

Or does some prophet voice, Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instinctive say“Prize well these flowers, for thou, beyond to-day,

Shalt in their spells rejoice !"

Yes! thou wilt learn their power,
When, cherish'd not az now, thou stand'st alone,
Compass'd by sweetly-saddening memories, thrown

Round thee by leaf or flower!

'Twill come ! as seasons come, The empire of the flowers, when these shall raise. Round thee once more the forms of other days,

Warm with the light of home!

Shapes thou no more may'st see ;
The household hearth, the heart-enlisted prayer;
All thou hast loved, and lost, and treasured there,

Where thy best thoughts must be !

Aye, prize them well, my child;
The bright, young, blooming things that never die ;
Pointing our hope to happier worlds, that lie

Far o'er this earthly wild !

Prize them, that, when forgot By all, their old familiar tints shall bring Sweet thoughts of her whose dirge the deep winds sing,

And whose love earth holds not!

Prize them, that through all hours Thou hold'st sweet commune with their beauty there; And, rich in this, through many a future year,

Bless thou our God for flowers !


This appeared in KEBLE's Christian Year, but it is stated to be the composition of a friend of the author of that beautiful volume.

UNHEARD in Summer's flaring ray

Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer ;
Wooing the stillness of the Autumn day
Bid it a moment linger,

Nor fly
Too soon from Winter's scowling eye.
The blackbird's song at eventide,

And hers who gay ascends,
Filling the heavens far and wide,
Are sweet, but none so blends

As thine
With calm decay and peace divine.

FAME. This is a translation of one of the most perfect of the lyrics of SCHILLER, and so well done that it loses little by transfer into our language, Mark how full of substauce it is. There is a thought in every line.

What shall I do lest life in silence pass ?

And if it do,
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass ;

What need'st thou rue ?
Remember aye the Ocean deeps are mute;

The shallows roar;
Worth is the Ocean-Fame is but the bruit

Along the shore.

What shall I do to be for ever known?

Thy duty ever.
This did full many who yet slept unknown-

Oh! never, never!
Think'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown

Whom thou know'st not?
By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown,

Divine their lot.

What shall I do to gain eternal life ?

Discharge aright
The simple dues with which each day is rife ;

Yea, with thy might.
Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise

Will life be fled,
While he, who ever acts as conscience cries,

Shall live, though dead.

FOREST HYMN. BRYANT has caught some inspiration from the peculiar features of the scenery of America. He is not so entirely cosmopolitan as his brethren. He only who has felt the solemn grandeur of the huge primæval forest could have given utterance to this beautiful hymn.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the grey old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that sway'd at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, beglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised. Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.

Father! thy hand
Hath reard these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood.
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vanlts,
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fillst
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds,
That run along the summit of these trees
In music ;-thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes, scarcely felt ;-the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship ;-Nature here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love.
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around
From perch to perch the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that 'midst its herbs
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immoveable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated—not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep

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