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.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King 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 Appenzel'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 Coligni'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 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 mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody frayPress where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

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 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 snowwhite 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 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! Thomas B. Macaulay.

LANGSYNE.

LANGSYNE!-how doth the word come back
With magic meaning to the heart,
As memory roams the sunny track,
From which hope's dreams were loth to part!
No joy like by-past joy appears;
For what is gone we fret and pine.
Were life spun out a thousand years,
It could not match Langsyne!

Langsyne!—the days of childhood warm,
When, tottering by a mother's knee,

Each sight and sound had power to charm,
And hope was high, and thought was free.
Langsyne!-the merry schoolboy days-
How sweetly then life's sun did shine!
Oh! for the glorious pranks and plays,
The raptures of Langsyne.

Langsyne!—yes, in the sound I hear
The rustling of the summer grove;
And view those angel features near
Which first awoke the heart to love.
How sweet it is in pensive mood,
At windless midnight to recline,
And fill the mental solitude
With spectres from Langsyne!

Langsyne!-ah, where are they who shared
With us its pleasures bright and blithe?
Kindly with some hath fortune fared;
And some have bowed beneath the scythe

Of death; while others scattered far
O'er foreign lands at fate repine,

Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star,
To muse on dear Langsyne.

Langsyne!-the heart can never be
Again so full of guileless truth;
Langsyne!-the eyes no more shall see,
Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
Langsyne!-with thee resides a spell
To raise the spirit, and refine.
Farewell!-there can be no farewell
To thee, loved, lost Langsyne!

THE RAINBOW.

HIGH in the airy element there hung
Another cloudy sea, that did disdain,

D. M. Moir.

As though his purer waves from heaven sprung,
To crawl on earth, as doth the sluggish main :
But it the earth would water with his rain,
That ebb'd and flow'd as wind and season would;
And oft the sun would cleave the limber mould
To alabaster rocks, that in the liquid roll'd.

Beneath those sunny banks a darker cloud,
Dropping with thicker dew, did melt apace,
And bent itself into a hollow shroud,
On which, if Mercy did but cast her face,
A thousand colours did the bow enchase,
That wonder was to see the silk distain'd

With the resplendence from her beauty gain'd,
And Iris paint her locks with beams so lively feign'd.

About her head a cypress heaven she wore,
Spread like a veil, upheld with silver wire,
In which the stars so burnt in golden ore,
As seemed the azure web was all on fire;
But hastily to quench their sparkling ire,
A flood of milk came rolling up the shore,
That on his curded wave swift Argus wore,
And the immortal swan, that did her life deplore.

Yet strange it was so many stars to see,
Without a sun to give their tapers light;
Yet strange it was not that it so should be;
For, where the sun centres himself by right,
Her face and locks did flame, that at the sight
The heavenly veil, that else should nimbly move,
Forgot his flight, and all incensed with love,
With wonder and amazement, did her beauty prove.

Over her hung a canopy of state,

Not of rich tissue nor of spangled gold,
But of a substance, though not animate,
Yet of a heavenly and spiritual mould,
That only eyes of spirits might behold:
Such light as from main rocks of diamond,

Shooting their sparks at Phoebus would rebound,
And little angels, holding hands, danced all around.

Fletcher.

THE GRASP OF THE DEAD.

'Twas in the battle field, and the cold pale moon
Looked down on the dead and dying;

And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking;
Careless he stept, where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it:

He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.