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THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

[Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed 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 colours, rally to my white plume-you will always find it in the path to honour and glory.” His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valour, 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 cornfields 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 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, in 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 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 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 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. Batholomew," 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 Luzerne, 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 spear-

men's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of St. Généviève, 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.

THE ARMADA.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear
Our noble England's praise;
I tell of the thrice famous deeds
She wrought in ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible
Against her bore in vain
The richest spoils of Mexico,
The stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close
Of a warm summer day,

There came a gallant merchant-ship
Full sail to Plymouth Bay;

Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet,
Beyond Aurigny's isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves,

Lie heaving many a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van,
By God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon,
Had held her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard at every gun
Was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof
Of Edgecumbe's lofty hall;
Many a light fishing bark put out
To pry along the coast,

And with loose rein and bloody spur
Rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted,
The stout old sheriff' comes;
Before him march the halberdiers;
Before him sound the drums;
His yeomen round the market cross
Make clear an ample space;
For there behooves him to set up
The standard of Her Grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal,
And gaily dance the bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind
The royal blazon swells.
Look how the Lion of the sea
Lifts up his ancient crown,
And underneath his deadly paw
Treads the gay lilies down.
So stalked he when he turned to flight,
On that famed Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow,
And Cæsar's eagle shield.
So glared he when at Agincourt

In wrath he turned to bay,

And crushed and torn beneath his claws
The princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight:
Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids:

Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute:
Ho! gallants, draw your blades:
Thou sun, shine on her joyously;
Ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious SEMPER EADEM,
The banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled
That banner's massy fold;
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed
That haughty scroll of gold;

Night sank upon the dusky beach,

And on the purple sea,

Such night in England ne'er hath been

Nor e'er again shall be.

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