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On the snowy cliffs, where mountain streams

Dash by the Switzer's dwelling-
He lead again, in his dying dreams,

His host the broad earth quelling.
Again Marengo's field was won,

And Jena's bloody battle ;
Again the world was overrun-

Made pale at his cannon's rattle.
He died at the close of that darksome day,

A day that shall live in story ;
In the rocky land they plac'd his clay,

And “ left him alone with his glory."

BATTLE HYMN OF THE LEAGUE.

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 turned the chance of war :
Hurrah ! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre !
O ! 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 ;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand.
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 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 dressid,
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 smil'd 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,
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 St. André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we 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, blaz’d 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, with flags and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
“ Remember St. 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, or 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 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;
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath rais'd the slave ;
And mocked 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.

Anonymous.

THE WATER GUEUSE.

The beggar's band that walks the land,

May roam the dale and lea,
But freer still, from man's command,

Are those that walk the sea.
The landsman sues, but to refuse

He leaves the rich man free;
But none deny the Water Gueuse-

The beggar of the sea !
Nor corn, nor grain, has he the pain

To purchase or to till ;
And Spanish churls their wines must drain,

The beggar's flask to fill.

His robes are rollid with many a fold

Of canvas white and fine;
His wallet is the good ship's hold,

His staff the mast of pine.
By land, the brave, foul fortune's slave,

May meet, by her decree,
The headsman's stroke, the traitor's grave

Beneath the gallows-tree ;
But ne'er to kneel before that steel,

Shall be the gueuse's lot,
Or, writhing in mid air, to feel

The suffocating knot.
If foes prevail, not ours to quail,

Or sue for grace to Spain ;
Our ensign to the mast we nail,

And fire the powder-train.
Nor ours to rest in earth unblest,

Or rot beneath the turf ;
Old ocean takes us to his breast,

And wraps us in his surf.
And now to trowl one lusty bowl,

Before we mount the wave;
Here's rest to gallant Egmont's soul !

Health to the living brave!
While conquest's fame gilds Nassau's name-

That leader of the free-
No chain can bind, no threat can tame.
The beggar of the sea!

Anonymous.

FROM THE SEA-STORM.

M'Paghten. Pass on :-The skies that were so fair, Were blacken'd, and the gentle air Grew troubl’d; and the billows rose Like a chaf'd lion, when his foes Have first disturbed him in his rest, And rising fury fills his breast. On the wind, as yet from a distance, came The thunder's voice; and the lightning's flame Threw a ghastly glare on the ambient gloom. Which no longer the sun had power to illume, And darker than night it quickly grew, And harder each moment the fresh gale blew; While the flashes of pale electric light But showed the thick black of that noon-day night.

The war of the elements now began ; And the heavens, and the seas, and the fierce winds ran Into one chaotic convulsive strife, Where terror, destruction, and death were rife. How sped the ship ?-She was as a child In a giant's hands, 'mid that warfare wild, She seemed as a weapon used by each wave, To hurl against the winds—which gave Desperate repulsion, and sent back The missile to her gulphy trackWhence batter'd, she again was driven Against the furious blasts of heaven.Her chief had sailed for many a day, And toil and time had sprinkled grey Upon his long-experienc'd head; And his was a heart that knew not dreadBut they who his anxious eye could mark, As the keen flash broke, for a time, the dark, Could gather from that but little of hope, That the high-tossed ship with the storm could cope.

All, all on the decks had crowded now; And tho' the black day obscur'd each brow, It was easy to tell what each bosom felt, While the timid shook, and the pious knelt, And the brave stood erect, prepared to die As best becomes a spirit high ; And the farewell grasp of friendship’s hand Spoke of a heart almost unmann'd; Unlike the grasp of hands at meeting, When the heart supplies the tongue with greeting ; And all unlike the affectionate pressing, In common adieus where, bless'd and blessing, Hope blithely speaks of a day more brightBut it dared not whisper in that noon's night! Closely the mother held to her breast Her babe—and the maid to her lover's was press'd ; And fiercely the waves o'er the vessel dash'd; And loudly the mast, as it tumbled, crash'd ; And screams were heard--but the maiden and mother All sounds, save prayer, in their bosoms smother ; While to the heaven which dark clouds cover, One prayed for her infant, and one for her lover. High raged the storm ; and upon the mad blast, The Fiend of the tempest seemed riding past, Exulting loud, with a demon's joy, And urging the elements to destroy ! Oh! 'tis alone in such wild commotion, We view the full majesty of the oceanEach wave in its foaming career hurl'd on By another, as huge, and as quickly gone; Howling like famish'd wolves for their prey,

And, with their white, churn'd, glittering spray,
Dazzling the eyes which behold them, more
Even than they daunt the heart with their roar;
Towering above the loftiest mast,
As though they dared heaven's fiercest blast,
And wreaking on the frail bark's head
Their fury when discomfited !

The batter'd ship lay as a wreck,
And Despair was king of her crowded deck :
For even the hope in prayer had fled,
And the billows dash'd over each bended head.
As yet no victim was snatch'd away;
But the waters will have their destin'd prey :
And they came o’er the vessel more quick and vast,
And each plunge she gave was more deep than the last ;
And the best hearts there it might well appal,
As she dash'd into each wide interval.
Brief were the orisons then given,
But none sincerer e'er reach'd heaven;
Nor ever were purer sent above,
Than that fair-cheek'd girl put up for her love :
It was not for herself her innocent tongue
Pray'd, but for him to whose breast she clung,
Trusting to share his unquiet grave,
If the God she bowed to refused to save.
Like a cloud-touching mountain a wave came on,
It broke o’er the ship and was speedily gone-
And whom bore it with it?— View that girl's face-
Her lover has sunk in its dark embrace !
The
prayer she pray'd, the grasp

she
gave

him-
Could not that fond prayer, that wild grasp save him ?
Thrice call'd she upon him—but his dear voice
May never again her heart rejoice ;
And she felt where he stood, and hop'd to die-
But there was for her more misery :
She died not-each fast-following wave
Pass'd her-unborne to her lover's wide grave-
While the roughest heart round her writh’d to see
Her mute-fixed-bitter agony !
Not all were pass'd so :-Hark! that scream,

Which now the roar of the tempest smothers-
Or did it to the ear but seem

To bemah! no, it was—the mother's !
With one weak white arm she had hugg'd the mast,
With the other her child, as each billow pass'd;
And close to her bosom it trembling crept,
And nestled, and hid its young face, and wept;
And its small fingers clasp'd her neck and hair,
As like a young dove it lay moaning there-
Guiltless, but doom'd-Oh! heaven that wave!
Her fragile form cannot hope to brave

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