But redder yet that light shall glow
  On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
  And bloodier yet the torrent flow
  Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

  ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
  Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
  Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
  Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

  The combat deepens.  On, ye brave,
  Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
  Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
  And charge with all thy chivalry!

  Few, few shall part where many meet! 
  The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
  And every turf beneath their feet
  Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

IVRY.

[1590.]

  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, O pleasant land of
          France! 
  And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
  Again let raptures light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;
  As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joys;
  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;
  An 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 has come to marshal us, in all his armor 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 you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,
  And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”