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 snowwhite 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'Aumales hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before 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; * 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 throughout 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 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 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, His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept- Our hero now undressed, popped out the light, 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." pay him well that can." u dis charge forego, your house I drive you say?" ne, I pray: " "With all my heart," the jolly host replies, Bring to dis spot a leetle bread and cheese : And den invite de rats to sup vid you: For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang: Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more." THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS. (WALTER SCOTT.) Not far advanced was morning day, He had safe conduct for his band, The train from out the castle drew, Sent hither by the king's behest, Part we in friendship from your land, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :'My manors, halls, and towers shall still Be open at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation stone ; The hand of Douglass is his own; The hand of such as Marmion clasp." Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And " This to me," he said, "And 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Although the meanest in her state, And if thou said'st I am not peer Lord Angus, thou-hast-lied !" On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou ther To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bryde, of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms,-what, warder, Let the portcullis fall," Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,— Like arrow through the arch-way sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, grazed his plume. The steed along the draw-bridge flies, And when lord Marmion reached his band |