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 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 Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.1

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the

slave,

And mocked the counsel cf the wise, and the valour of the

brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are ;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

1 Saint Geneviève was the patron of the intensely Catholic city of Paris.

EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE.

To my true king I offered free from stain
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,1
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep ;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting place I asked, an early grave.

Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

VIRGINIA.

(Fragments of a lay sung in the Forum on the day whereon Lucius Sextius Sextinus Lateranus and Caius Licinius Calvus Stolo were elected Tribunes of the Commons the fifth time, in the year of the city ccclxxxii.)

YE good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true,
Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you,
Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care,
A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may
bear.

The convent of La Vernia is in Tuscany, beautifully situated at a height of nearly 4,000 feet above the sea.

This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine,
Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine.
Here, in this very Forum, under the noonday sun,

In sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done.
Old men still creep among us who saw that fearful day,
Just seventy years and seven ago, when the wicked Ten bare

sway.

Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed, And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst. He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride: Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side;

The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear

His lowering brow, his curling mouth which always seemed to

sneer;

That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred

still;

For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill:
Nor lacks he fit attendance; for close behind his heels,
With outstretched chin and crouching pace, the client Marcus
steals,

His loins girt up to run with speed, be the errand what it may,
And the smile flickering on his cheek, for aught his lord may

say.

Such varlets pimp and jest for hire among the lying Greeks: Such varlets still are paid to hoot when brave Licinius speaks. Where'er ye shed the honey, the buzzing flies will crowd; Where'er ye fling the carrion, the raven's croak is loud; Where'er down Tiber garbage floats, the greedy pike ye see ; And wheresoe'er such lord is found, such client still will be.

Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy sky Shines out the dewy morning-star, a fair young girl came by. With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm;

H H

And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran,

With bright, frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze

of man;

And up the Sacred Street she turned, and, as she danced along,
She warbled gaily to herself lines of the good old song,

How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp,
And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight

lamp.

The maiden sang as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight, From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning

light;

And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young face,

And loved her with the accursed love of his accursed race,
And all along the Forum, and up the Sacred Street,

His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing feet.

Over the Alban mountains the light of morning broke ; From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of

smoke:

The city-gates were opened; the Forum all alive,

With buyers and with sellers was humming like a hive :

Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,
And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing,
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home:
Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome !
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame
or harm.

She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay,

And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up
the varlet Marcus came; not such as when erewhile
He crouched behind his patron's heels with the true client

smile :

He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched

fist,

And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist

Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look

aghast ;

And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;
The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs,
And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares,
And the strong smith Muræna, grasping a half-forged brand,
And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand.

All came in wrath and wonder; for all knew that fair child; And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and smiled ;

And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow, The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go. Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled in harsh, fell tone, "She's mine, and I will have her: I seek but for mine own : She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold, The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old. 'Twas in the sad September, the month of wail and fright, Two augurs were borne forth that morn; the Consul died ere night.

I wait on Appius Claudius, I waited on his sire :

Let him who works the client wrong beware the patron's ire!"

So spake the varlet Marcus; and dread and silence came On all the people at the sound of the great Claudian name. For then there was no Tribune to speak the word of might, Which makes the rich man tremble, and guards the poor man's

right.

'There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sextius then ; But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten.

Yet ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,

Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,

Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,1 And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his

breast,

Icilius, to whom, according to the legend, Virginia was betrothed, belonged to a public-spirited and influential plebeian family, and had himself be en a Tribune of the people.