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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 of 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
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of
And be your oriflame to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
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
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day,
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey;
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne ;
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall
Ho! Philip, send for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's
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;
THE THREE SONS.
REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find; Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all; His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext,
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which
he will say.
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ;
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee :
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brothers, keen,
When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street,
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet;
A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love, which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to dwell.
To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.
And trust that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain;
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.
MARCH ON CAWNPORE.
Ir was sixteen hundred rank and file with native levies made,
Over the yawning nullah and along the deep sand road.
Out spoke our gallant leader, "Look! yonder goes the way
And in our road the knaves stand thick; wherefore, as you may
Our path lies through their ranks, and carved shall quickly be.”
And long before the dew was dry, or sounds of morning still, The rattle of the strife was done the slaves flew o'er the hill.
Onward again-the good grey head foremost in fight and march, While the sun's blazing gold burned up, through heaven's cloudless arch.
No hoarse command, no heed of hand, nor voice in all their way, To bid them close these dust-clad files, to keep their just array; The hope that bears their captain on, the rage that scorneth
Throbs in the soldier's hones; heart, burns in the drummer's breast