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 Saint 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" O! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 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 white— raine. 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 Lucerne- 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; MONCONTOUR. 73 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! THOMAS B. MACAULAY. Moncontour.-A Song of the Huguenots. H! weep for Moncontour! OH Oh! weep for the hour When the children of darkness and evil had power; When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God! Oh! weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain, One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers, Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, Farewell, and forever! The priest and the slave THOMAS B. MACAULAY. NOT Burial of Sir John Moore. a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him! Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, BOADICEA. But half of our heavy task was done, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory! CHARLES WOLFE. WH Boadicea. HEN the British warrior queen, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Full of rage and full of grief. "Princess! if our aged eyes All the terrors of our tongues. "Rome shall perish-write that word "Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground- 75 "Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, "Then the progeny that springs "Regions Cæsar never knew Such the Bard's prophetic words, She, with all a monarch's pride, "Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you." WILLIAM COWPER. Lochiel's Warning. WIZARD. LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, |