16 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 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. May enne hath turned his rein. 35 40 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 Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: 45 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 has ta'en the cornet white. 50 Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath 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 55 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. 60 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 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 Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. 65 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 OUR band is few but true and tried, The British soldier trembles Our tent the cypress-tree; As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. 12 24 36 Well knows the fair and friendly moon The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; William Cullen Bryant. 48 60 1831. |