And the better in memory to fix
The place of the Children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street,
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
And opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the Great Church Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.

Psalm xc.

Robert Browning.

LORD, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations.

Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.

Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men.

For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.

Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which groweth up.

In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth.

For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are we troubled.

Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.

For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told.

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

Who knoweth the power of thine anger? even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath.

So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

Return, O LORD, how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants.

O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil.

Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.

And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.

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 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 murmuring 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.

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 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 armor dressed;
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 I saw 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 Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye 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 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, 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 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?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of

war,

Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry 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 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 glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

Macaulay.

Gaffer Gray.

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray?

Heartily. And why does thy nose look so blue?"

With the tremulous voice of

age.

""Tis the weather that's cold,

"'Tis I'm grown very old,

And my doublet is not very new; Well-a-day!"

"Then line thy warm doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray,
And warm thy old heart with a glass!"

"Nay, but credit I've none,

And my money's all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass?-Well-a-day!"

"Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray,
And knock at the jolly priest's door."

"The priest often preaches

"Against worldly riches,

But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,— Well-a-day!"

"The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray;
Warmly fenced both in back and in front."
"He will fasten his locks

And threaten the stocks,

Should he ever more find me in want; - Well-a-day!"

"The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there."

"His fat beeves and his beer

And his merry new year,

Are all for the flush and the fair,-Well-a-day!"

"My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then? while it lasts, man, we'll live!" "The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,- Well-a-day!"

Auld Robin Gray.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,

And a' the warld to sleep are gane,

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,

When my gudeman lies sound by me.

Holcroft

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his bride,
But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside:

To mak' that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea,
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna' been awa a week but only twa,

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea,
And Auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin,
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win,
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry me!"