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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;
Horatius in his harness,

Halting upon one knee ;
And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge

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,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.
Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave;-
Our hearths we abandon, our lands we resign ;-
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

MACAULAY.

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

walls annoy

of war;

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

Navarre.

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

brethren go.”

foe;

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'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 !

MACAULAY.

THE ARMADA.

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

Spain.

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