Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
      Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;
    The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
      The morn the marshalling in arms,—­the day,
    Battle’s magnificently stern array! 
      The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which, when rent,
    The earth is covered thick with other clay,
      Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
      Rider, and horse—­friend, foe—­in one red burial blent!

LORD BYRON.

 IVRY.

 A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited “King Henry of Navarre” every poetry hour for a year?  It was a long poem, but you stuck to it to the end.  We did not know the meaning of a certain word, but I found it up in Switzerland.  It is the name of a little town. (1800-59.)

    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 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 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 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, amid the ranks of war,
    And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”