PROGRAMME NO. 3,

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

I am dying, Egypt, dying,

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows

Gather on the evening blast;
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me !

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Listen to the great heart-secrets,

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-
That her blood, with mine commingled,

Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian !

Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light the path to Stygian horrors

With the splendors of thy smile.
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,

Let his brow the laurel twine;
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,

Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;

Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming ! quick, my falchion !

Let me front them, ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle

Shall my heart exulting swell-
Isis and Osiris guard thee !
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell !

GEN. LYTLE.

MAHSR JOHN.

I heahs a heap o' people talkin, ebrywhar I goes,
'Bout Washintum an' Franklum, an' sech genuses as dose ;
I s'pose dey's mighty fine, but heah's de p’int I's bettin' on :
Dere wuzn't nar a one ob'em come up to Mahsr John.

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
I sees him right afore me now, jes' like he use to be,
A-settin' on de gal'ry lookin' awful big án' wise,
Wid little niggers fannin' him to keep away de flies,

He alluz wore de berry bes' ob planters' linen suïts,
An' kep' a nigger busy jes a-blackin ob his boots;
De buckles on his galluses wuz made of solid gol',
An' diamon's !-dey wuz in in his shu't as thick as it would

hol'.

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';
Fibe cotton places, 'sides a sugar place in Loozyan';
He had a thousand nigger-an' he worked 'em, shore's you

born!
De oberseahs ud start 'em at de breakin' ob de morn.

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Sometimes he'd gib a frolic—dat's de time you seed de fun;
De 'ristocratic families, dey ud be dar, ebry one ;
Dey'd hab a band from New Orleans to play for 'em to

dance,
An' tell you what, de supper wuz a tickler sarcumstance.

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,
I listens to 'em quiet, till dey done said all dey can,
An' den I lows dot in dem days 'at I remembers on,
Dat gemman warn't a patchin' onto my ol' Mahsr John !

IRWIN RUSSELL.

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 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,
Of fife, of 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, 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 ?

go”

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

of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.