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THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

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 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."

TO MRS. HEMANS.

Till its romantic spots are hallowed so,
That all of beautiful in woman's love,
And all that's noble on the hero's brow,
All that resembles holiness above,
All that we venerate on earth below,
Unconscious in thy song to tenfold beauty grow.

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The Pilgrim Fathers! how its light doth stream
And flash in glory o'er that thoughtful band;
In the clear brightness of its magic gleam,
Not dimly seen, those various forms are scanned.
With burning thoughts they tread the rock-bound
strand,

The hoary head, the frank, free face of youth,
The dear child clinging to the father's hand,

Stern manhood's brow, and woman's eye of truth-
A mingled crowd upon that wished-for land,

Oh! more than Plato's dream, devoutly there they stand.

The lays of many lands-they are thine own-
Yet hast thou twined them with such feelings dear
To all free hearts, and they have such a tone,
Ye may not strike them in the tyrant's ear,
Nor can the coward heart their music hear.
Some should be sung around the peaceful hearth,
For they are loved by all the dwellers there
And 'mid domestic scenes had their own birth,
Scenes, e'en the wicked in their hearts revere-
Some in the battle heard, the freeman's soul might
cheer.

Thou hast a voice, a glad voice for the spring,
And harvest hath a song of music quick,
And joyous chords the bridal morning ring;
But other notes than these for the sad wreck
The faithful boy on that still burning deck,

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TO MRS. HEMANS.

The last long look to him who was so dear,
The settled paleness on the cold dead cheek,
The solemn chant, slow pealed by the sad bier,
The reft one's grief, that is too deep to speak
Woman's strong love, for which all words but thine
are weak.

And thou hast thrown o'er all thy blessed songs
A veil of feminine thought, that still doth greet
The soul with joy that not to earth belongs,
A charm from thine own heart, that when we meet
Thy much loved verse, it tells of thy retreat;
E'en as those shells, thrown by the flowing sea
In polished beauty at our careless feet.

More exquisitely fair than art can be,
Far from their native ocean still repeat
For ever its loved roar, in mimic murmurs sweet.

THE MINSTER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

SPEAK low-the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer:
Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air!
Stern, yet serene !-a reconciling spell
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!

-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom.

THE MINSTER.

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense mists their sainted pageantry! Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and pow er, Yet not for these Î ask one lingering hour.

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But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have poured
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head
And thou, still battling with the tempest's force,
'Thou, whose bright spirit through all time hath bled,
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past no trace!
-Doth not this hush give answer to my quest?
Surely the dread religion of the place,

By every grief, hath made its might confessed!
-Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to heaven a spot, thus pure, and still, and deep!

THEKLA'S SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

This song is said to have been composed by Schiller, in answer to the inquiries of his friends, respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.

ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,

When from thine eye my floating shadow passed?

Was not my work fulfilled, and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved ?-my lot was cast.

Wilt thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That, melting into song her soul away,

Gave the spring breeze what witched thee in its tone?
-But while she loved, she lived in that sad lay.

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,— Where nought again may part what Love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.

There shalt thou find us-there with us be blessed,
If, as our love, thy love is pure and true!

There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.

* Wallenstein.