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62

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

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 Guelders and

Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of

France, Charge for the golden lilies now,—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 he praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne

hath turn'd 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 Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your

brethren go.'

foe:

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of

Navarre !

in war,

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 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.

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

BY THOMAS H. BAYLY.

I NEVER was a favourite

My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness

That bless'd her fairer child ;
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,

While fondled on her knee;
I've turn'd away to hide my tears,—

There was no kiss for me!

64

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

And yet I strove to please, with all

My little store of sense ;
I strove to please, and infancy

Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met

A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself

In tears upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh beauty! in my nursery

I learn'd to know thy worth ;-
For even there, I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn;
And wish'd-for others wish'd it too-

I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,

But in my sister's face,
There was a look of love that claim'd

A smile or an embrace.
But when I raised my lip, to meet

The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart,-,

They spoke not in my eyes.

But oh! that heart too keenly felt

The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses deck'd ;
I did not covet them : but oft,

When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege

Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came

A time of sorrow too,-
For sickness o'er my sister's form

Her venom'd mantle threw :
The features, once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully

From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night,

I watch'd beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillow'd her

poor

head.
She lived !-and loved me for my care !

My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,

But now I have a friend !

WHERE ARE THEY?

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

Qur Fathers ! where are they? and where

The prophets ?—From this mortal scene, Gone with the dream of things that were,

As if they ne'er had been.
Beyond the wanderings of the morn,

Beyond the portals of the day,
Unto a land whence none return,

Our Fathers—where are they?

The vanish'd comet long deem'd lost,

And absent for a thousand years, Again, amid the starry host,

From darkness reappears.

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WHERE ARE THEY? Seas ebb and flow upon the shore,

Moons wax when they have waned away, But they who go to come no more,

Our Fathers—where are they?

Thou sun that light'st the boundless skies,

Where are the earth's departed gone ?
Ye stars, to your all-seeing eyes

Is the great secret known?
Ye breathe not of their place of rest,

But roll in silence on your way,
And the lorn echoes of the breast

Still answer—Where are they?

TO MRS. HEMANS.

The spirit hath a pure, embalming ray,,
E'en like the sun, with his all-silvering light,
That sweetly sheds its glory through the day,
And lends us its reflection still at night-
Falling on every hill and mountain bright,
And forest dark, and lone and quiet vale,
Bringing a thousand beauties to the sight,
That else had been unseen, or dim and pale;
Filling our souls in summer with delight,
And making winter's snowy robe more dazzling white.

Thus o'er the world of human feeling, thou
HO shed the glory of thy thrilling song,
Lit up its pinnacles to flash and glow,
Like stars, that in the deep blue sky do throng,

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