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Thou lovely, ghastly scene of fair decay, In beauty awful, and 'midst horrors gay, Renown more wide, more bright shall gild thy name, Than thy wild charms or fearful doom could claim.

Immortal spirits, in whose deathless song Latium and Athens yet their reign prolong, And from their thrones of fame and empire hurled, Still sway the sceptre of the mental world, You in whose breasts the flames of Pindus beamed, Whose copious lips with rich persuasion streamed, Whose minds unravelled nature's mystic plan, Or traced the mazy labyrinth of man; Bend, glorious spirits, from your blissful bowers, And broidered couches of unfading flowers, While round your locks the Elysian garlands blow, With sweeter odors, and with brighter glow. Once more, immortal shades, atoning Fame Repairs the honors of each glorious name. Behold Pompeii's opening vaults restore The long-lost treasures of your ancient lore, The vestal radiance of poetic fire, The stately buskin, and the tuneful lyre, The wand of eloquence, whose magic sway The sceptres and the swords of earth obey, And every mighty spell, whose strong control Could nerve or melt, could fire or soothe the soul.

And thou sad city, raise thy drooping head, And share the honors of the glorious dead. Had Fate reprieved thee till the frozen North Poured in wild swarms its hoarded millions forth, Till blazing cities marked where Alboïn trod,* Or Europe quaked beneath the scourge of God, No lasting wreath had graced thy funeral pall, No fame redeemed the horrors of thy fall. Now shall thy deathless memory live entwined With all that conquers, rules, or charms the mind,

* The well-known name of Attila,

Each lofty thought of Poet or of Sage,
Each grace of Virgil's lyre, or Tully's page.
Like theirs whose Genius consecrates thy tomb,
Thy fame shall snatch from time a greener bloom,
Shall spread where'er the Muse has reared her throne,
And live renowned in accents yet unknown;
Earth's utmost bounds shall join the glad acclaim,
And distant Camus bless Pompeii's name.


[Knight's Quarterly Magazine, 1824.]


[HENRY the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was op

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 glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the 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.
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 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, in deafening shout, God save our Lord, the

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
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre'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 then, '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 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.


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