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Each lofty thought of Poet or of Sage,
Each grace of Virgil's lyre, or Tully's page.
THE BATLLE OF IVRY.
[Knight's Quarterly Magazine, 1824.]
[HENRY the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, posed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, 'My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume, - you will always find it in the path to honor and glory.' His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, 'Save the French!' and his clemency added a number of the enemies to his own army. Aikin's Biographical Dictionary.]
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
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,
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
'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 war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.'
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
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
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man;
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
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!
END OF VOL. I.