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 Frenchmen 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 footcloth 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!

LORD MACAULAY.

* * * * *

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

  You know we French stormed Ratisbon: 
    A mile or so away,
  On a little mound, Napoleon
    Stood on our storming-day;
  With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
    Legs wide, arms locked behind,
  As if to balance the prone brow,
    Oppressive with its mind.