THE BATTLE OF IVRY *

(MACAULAY.) Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French throne, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy, and, from the union of these several nations, their army was called the " army of the league." In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party, at Ivry, a small town in France. Before the battle, he said to his troops, “ My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume.--you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying. “ Save the French !” and his clemency added a number of the enemy to his own army.

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 the

dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, 0

pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of

the waters, Again let rapture light the eye 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 would thy

walls annoy Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance

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 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 em

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 armor drest, And he has bound a snow-wbite 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, and fall full well he

may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where you see my white plume shine, amid the

ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

* Coligni, (pronounced Co-teen-yee,) a venerable old man, was one of the victims in the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

† Oriflamme, (pronounced or-ree-flam,) the French standard. 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 bireling 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 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'Aumalesť 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,"I was passed from

man to man;

* Golden lilies were embroidered upon the French flag. † Pronounced Do-mal.

| On the evening of St. Bartholomew's day, in the year 1572, an indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants throughont France, took place, by order of Charles IX., then king of France.

But out spake gentle Henry, then, “No Frenchman is

my foe; Down, down with every foreigner ; but let your brethren Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of

Navarre!

go."

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never

sball 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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of

the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories

are ! And honor to our soverign lord, King Henry of Na

varre.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.
A Frenchman once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover in the night,
Near the roadside an ale-house chanced to spy :
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters : " Hallo! Garcon, if you please,
Bring me a little bit of bread and cheese.
And hallo! Gareon, a pot of porter too!” he said,
" Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed."

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept
To wished for bed; but not a wink he slept-
For, on the floor, some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.

Our hero now undressed, popped out the light,
Put on his cap and bade the world good-night;
But first his breeches, which contained the fare,
Under his pillow he had placed with care.

Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, And on the flour-sacks greedily began; At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found; And while at this they regaling sat, Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap; Who, half awake, cries out, “Hallo! hallo! Vat is dat nibbel at my pillow so? Ah! 'tis one big huge rat! Vat de diable is it he nibble, nibble at?"

In vain our little hero sought repose ; Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose; And such the pranks they kept up all the night, That he, on end antipodes upright, Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light, “Hallo! Maison ! Garcon, I say! Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !” The bill was brought, and to his great surprise, Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce believes his eyes: With eager haste, he runs it o'er, And every time he viewed it thought it more. “Vy zounds, and zounds !” he cries, “I sall no pay; Vat charge ten shelangs for vat I have mange? A leetal sup of porter, dis vile bed, Vare all de rats do run about my head ?” “Plague on those rats !" the landlord muttered out; “I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout: I'll pay him well that can.”

l'ou say?" pay him well that can.'

ne, I pray: u dis charge forego, your house I drive