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PROGRAMME NO. 3,
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
I am dying, Egypt, dying,
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
Gather on the evening blast;
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more, And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore; Though no glitterings guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will, I must perish like a Ronan,
Die the great Triumvir still.
Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low; 'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him
'Twas his own that struck the blow,His, who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's rayHis, who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps with'her widowed home,
Seek her; say the Gods bear witness
Altars, augurs, circling wings-
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian !
Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
With the splendors of thy smile.
Let his brow the laurel twine;
Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
Let me front them, ere I die.
Shall my heart exulting swell-
I heahs a heap o' people talkin, ebrywhar I goes,
He shorely wuz de greates' man de country ebber growedYou better had git out de way when he come 'long de road ! He hel' his head up dis way, lik he 'spised to see de groun’; An' niggers had to toe de mark when Mahsr John was 'roun.
I only has to shet my eyes, an' den it seems to me
He alluz wore de berry bes' ob planters' linen suïts,
You heered me! 'twas a caution, when he went to take a
ride, To see him in de kerridge, wid ol' Mistis by his sideMulatter Bill a-dribin, an' a nigger on behin', An'two Kaintucky horses tuk 'em tearin' whar dey gwine.
Ol' Mahsr John wuz pow'ful rich—he owned a heap o' lan';
Sometimes he'd gib a frolic—dat's de time you seed de fun;
Well, times is changed. De war it come an' sot de niggers
free, An' now ol' Mahsr John ain't hardly wuf as much as me; He had to pay his debts, an' so his lan' is mos’ly goneAn' I declar I's sorry for my pore ol' Mahsr John.
But when I heahs 'em talkin' bout some sullybrated man,
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 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 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 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 mayFor never I saw promise yet of such a bloody frayPress 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,
crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding
star, Amid 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 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
today; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have born us best in fight ; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta’en the cornet whiteOur 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
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.