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It tells me every cloud is past

Which lately seem'd to lour-
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,

And now's their nuptial hour !
With light thus round, within, above,

With nought to make one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love

Were at this moment nigh,-
It seems as if life's brilliant sun

Had stopp'd in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,

And rest in radiance here.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

There is a martial spirit and exultant power in this ballad that stirs the heart, like the sound of a trumpet. "And how musical the verse! It is by MACAULAY, great almost in poetry as in prose. 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, O 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 turn’d the chance of

war, Hurrah! burrah! for Ivry, and 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!

hand;

a

of war,

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's em

purpled 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 look'd

upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll’d from wing to

wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord

the King.' “ And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, — For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

I Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks 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 cul.

verin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint 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,-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 rush'd, 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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail ; And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember St. Bartholomew,” was pass'd 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 !

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return. Ho! Phillip, 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 Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward

to-night! For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave, And mock'd 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 !

BLESSED BE GOD FOR FLOWERS.

The author of this sweet poem is, we are informed, Mrs. C. TINSLEY, It was suggested by seeing a child asleep with flowers in its hand.

BLESSED be God for flowers !
For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts that breathe
From out their odorous beauty, like a wreath

Of sunshine on life's hours !

a

Lightly upon thine eye
Hath fallen the noontide sleep, my joyous bird ;
And through thy parted lips the breath, scarce heard,

Comes, like a summer sigh.

One rosy hand is thrown
Beneath thy rosier cheek, the other holds
A group of sweet field flowers, whose bloom unfolds

A freshness, like thine own.

Around the fragrant prize
With eager grasp, thy little fingers close ;
What are the dreams that haunt thy sweet repose,

What radiance greets thine eyes ?

For thou art smiling still ;-
Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods,
Plucking th' expanded cups and bursting buds,

At thine unfetter'd will?

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Or does some prophet voice, Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instinctive say“Prize well these flowers, for thou, beyond to-day,

Shalt in their spells rejoice !"

Yes! thou wilt learn their power,
When, cherish'd not as now, thou stand'st alone,
Compass'd by sweetly-saddening memories, thrown

Round thee by leaf or flower!

'Twill come ! as seasons come, The empire of the flowers, when these shall raise. Round thee once more the forms of other days,

Warm with the light of home !

Shapes thou no more may'st see ;
The household hearth, the heart-enlisted prayer;
All thou hast loved, and lost, and treasured there,

Where thy best thoughts must be!

Aye, prize them well, my child ;
The bright, young, blooming things that never die;
Pointing our hope to happier worlds, that lie

Far o'er this earthly wild !

Prize them, that, when forgot By all, their old familiar tints shall bring Sweet thoughts of her whose dirge the deep winds sing,

And whose love earth holds not !

Prize them, that through all hours Thou hold'st sweet commune with their beauty there; And, rich in this, through many a future year,

Bless thou our God for flowers !

TO THE RED-BREAST.

This appeared in KEBLE's Christian Year, but it is stated to be the composition of a friend of the author of that beautiful volume.

UNHEARD in Summer's flaring ray

Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer ;
Wooing the stillness of the Autumn day
Bid it a moment linger,

Nor fly
Too soon from Winter's scowling eye.
The blackbird's song at eventide,

And hers who gay ascends,
Filling the heavens far and wide,
Are sweet, but none so blends

As thine
With calm decay and peace divine.

FAME.

This is a translation of one of the most perfect of the lyrics of SCHILLER, and so well done that it loses little by transfer into our language, Mark how full of substauce it is. There is a thought in every line.

What shall I do lest life in silence pass ?

And if it do,
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass ;

What need'st thou rue ?
Remember aye the Ocean deeps are mute;

The shallows roar;
Worth is the Ocean-Fame is but the bruit

Along the shore.

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