To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed, Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave ;-
Our hearths we abandon, our lands we resign;-
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

BATTLE OF IVRY.

MACAULAY.

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 song, of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields 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 was 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 turned the chance of war;

Hurrah! hurrah! 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 Appenzil's stout infantry, and Egmont's 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 impurpled 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 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,

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, 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 Andre's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres and Almayne. "Now, by the lips of those you 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 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 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."

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! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp's 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, 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!

THE ARMADA.

MACAULAY.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise :

I sing of the thrice famous deeds, she wrought in ancient days,

When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant ship, full sail to Plymouth bay;

The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall;

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;

Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast;

And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff

comes;

Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums.

The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space,

For there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace:

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,

As slow, upon the labouring wind, the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field.

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield: