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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!
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!
BLESSED BE GOD FOR FLOWERS.
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 !
Of sunshine on life's hours !
Lightly upon thine eye
Comes, like a summer sigh.
One rosy hand is thrown
A freshness, like thine own.
Around the fragrant prize
What radiance greets thine eyes ?
For thou art smiling still ;
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,
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 ;
Where thy best thoughts must be !
Aye, prize them well, my child;
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 !
TO THE RED-BREAST.
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 ;
And hers who gay ascends,
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,
What need'st thou rue ?
The shallows roar;
Along the shore.
What shall I do to be for ever known?
Thy duty ever.
Oh! never, never!
Whom thou know'st not?
Divine their lot.
What shall I do to gain eternal life ?
Yea, with thy might.
Will life be fled,
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
Father! thy hand