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With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel When

peers,

Banners

are

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Waving

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,

66

Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord the King!"

When "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full Banners well he may

are

Waving

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 An-
dré'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-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 When

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."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a

prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in

fight;

And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet

Banners

are

Waving

white

When Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath

Banners

are

Waving

ta'en,

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lu

cerne,

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pis

toles,

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 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 valor

of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all When

glories are;

Banners

are

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry Waving

of Navarre!

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

On the Loss of the Royal George

Written when the News Arrived, September, 1782.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

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