THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.
THE King is come to marshal us, all in his armour 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, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the
king!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of
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. Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres and Almayne.
THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.
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 !
Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayence hath turned his
rein,
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter !—the Flemish Count is slain!
Their ranks are breaking like the 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 outspake 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! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright, Ho! burghers of St. Geneviève, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God have crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the
And mocked 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 liege, King Henry of Navarre!
THE CONVICT SHIP.
MORN on the waters! and purple and bright
Bursts on the billow the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on.
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward, like hope in the gale.
The winds come around her in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along.
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds.
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away and away :
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away like a dream of the heart.
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by-
Music around her, and sunshine on high—
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below?
Night on the waves, and the moon is on high,
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds as they pass her to light!
Look to the waters: asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain.
Who, as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty, could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song;
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled :
All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrows, and freighted with sighs.
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.
BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured.
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ;
He comes with the spoils of nations back:
The vines he crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day:
Bring flowers, to die in the conqueror's way.
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell,
Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear,
They were born to blush in her shining hair;
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth:
Her place is now by another's side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine were we kneel in prayer,—
They are nature's offering, their place is there.
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part.
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours:
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!
THE ELDER SCRIPTURE.
THERE is a book, who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts;
And all the lore its scholars need-
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.
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