Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely

height,

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of

light,

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless

plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,

And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled

pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Car

*

lisle.(')

*

*

IVRY.

[The murder of Henry the Third had given Henry of Navarre the legal title to the throne of France; but his rights were denied him by the Roman Catholic party, who resisted him in arms. In the course of the year 1590 the king won a splendid victory over his opponents at Ivry. Ivry is near the town of Dreux, where Maine and the Isle of France abut upon the south-east corner of Normandy.]

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 of dance, Through thy corn-fields 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.(2)

(1) Belvoir Castle, on the borders of Leicestershire and Lincolnshire, was the seat of the Earl of Rutland in 1588. In site, and in the advantage which is taken of that site, it rivals Windsor. The Castle of Lancaster was enlarged and beautified by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, about the year 1362.

(3) Rochelle, as the stronghold of the Protestant party, was frequently besieged during the wars of the Huguenots.

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.

Hurra! hurra! a single field hath turned the chance of war; Hurra! hurra for Ivry, and 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 ;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel-peers,
And Appenzell's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
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 Coligny'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, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the
king!"

"An 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

war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”

(') The Holy League, for maintaining the ascendency of the Roman Catholic religion, was formed at Péronne in 1576. The family of Lorraine, of which the Duke of Guise was the head, were deeply implicated in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, the noblest victim of which was the Admiral Coligny. The Canton of Appenzell, which is still in great part Catholic, contributed a strong contingent of mercenaries to the cause of the League; which was likewise assisted by a body of cavalry from the Low Countries, commanded by Count Egmont, who, in an evil hour for himself, forgot what was due to the name he bore.

Hurra! 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-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?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.
Up with it high! unfurl it wide! that all the host may know
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his
church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point

of war,

Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

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

turn.

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. 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 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.

EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE.

To my true king I offered free from stain.
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him I threw lands, honors, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,()
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting-place I asked, an early grave.

(1) St. Genevieve was the patron of the intensely Catholic city of Paris. (3) The convent of Lavernia is in Tuscany, beautifully situated at a height of nearly four thousand feet above the sea.

O thou whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust! A broken heart lies here.

VIRGINIA.

[Fragments of a lay sung in the Forum on the day whereon Lucius Sextius Sextinus Lateranus and Caius Licinius Calvus Stolo were elected Tribunes of the Commons the fifth time, in the year of the city 382.]

YE good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true, Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you, Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear.

This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine,

Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine.
Here, in this very Forum, under the noonday sun,
In sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done.
Old men still creep among us who saw that fearful day,
Just seventy years and seven ago, when the wicked Ten bare

sway.

Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed, And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst. He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride; Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side;

The townsmen shrunk to right and left, and eyed askance with fear

His lowering brow, his curling mouth which always seemed to

sneer;

That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred

still;

For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill: