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And there it stands unto this day,
To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Halting upon one knee ;
In letters all of gold,
In the brave days of old.
MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ROME
SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.
MONCONTOUR. Oh, weep for Moncontour ! 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, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain ; Oh, weep for the living who linger to bear The renegade's shame, and the exile's despair. One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers :
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,
BATTLE OF IVRY.
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 wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance
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 im
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 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
Now God be praised ! the day is ours: Mayenne hath
turned his reinD'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 Down, down, with every foreigner ; but let your
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in
war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of
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 !
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