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The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andrè'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 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! 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, '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's 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 Saint Genevieve, 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 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.
Knight's Quarterly Magazine.

T. M.



On! had my fate been joined with thine
As once this pledge appeared a token;
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee--the wise and old reproving :-
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

For, once, my soul like thine was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestowed by thee upon another.

Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet, let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid,
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid ;
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures,These varied loves,-these matron fears,——

These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures.

If thou wert mine, had all been hushed;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flushed,
But bloomed in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,-
For Nature seemed to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorred deceit,→
For then it beat but to adore thee.

But, now, I seek for other joys;—

To think, would drive my soul to madness!In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, conquer half my bosom's sadness.


Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know that thou art lost for ever.
Hours of Idleness.


ALTHOUGH the tear-drop gliding
Makes thee lovelier than before,
Yet weep not at my chiding,-
I'll never chide thee more.

Let thy lip no longer quiver,

Let thy bosom's heaving cease,
Though they lend more bliss than ever
To the long, long kiss of peace.

Could my lips with scorn deceive thee,
I might boast our broken tie;

But to lose thee, and to leave thee,
Were to part with peace and die.
New Monthly Magazine.

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How many lift the head, look gay, and smile,
Against their consciences.

WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart,
What must not be revealed.

'Tis hard to smile, when one could weep;
To speak, when one would silent be;
To wake, when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast,
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;
And Time guides with unerring feet,
The wearied wanderer home.
Constable's Edinburgh Magasine.



MARKED you her cheek of roscate hue!
Marked you her eye of radiant blue !
That eye in liquid circles moving,
That cheek abashed at man's approving,
The one Love's arrows darting round,
The other blushing at the wound?


THERE is a feeling in his heart,

A feeling, which it well might spare, That will not break it and depart,

But ever dwells and rankles there :-
Nor music, mirth, nor rosy wine,—
Friendship, nor woman's smiles divine,
Nor sanctity of prayer,—

Nor aught that holy men may say,
Can scare that ravening fiend away!

A sickness of the soul, the balm

Of Hope can neither soothe nor slake ;—
A serpent that no spell can charm,
With eye eternally awake;—

A glance of fire, a tongue of flame,
That Time can neither tire nor tame,
Nor music's voice disarm ;-

A living sense of lasting wo,
That poisons every bliss below!

It was not always thus.-He danced
The earlier hours of life away,
And snatched at joy where'er it chanced
To blossom on his lonely way!

Then Hope was young, and bright, and fair,—
He knew nor wo nor wasting care,

But, innocently gay,

Deemed-reckless of the debt it owed"Twould always flow as then it flowed!

As Childhood ripened into Youth,

Those feelings fled :-he drank the springs Of Knowledge, and the source of Truth, (What the sage writes the poet sings) And read in Nature's varying forms, Her shifting shades of sun and storms,

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