OW 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 the 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 turn'd the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King 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 look'd 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 look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line, in 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, 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, 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 now, 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 rush'd, 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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail:
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew," was pass'd 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!
Ho! maidens of Vienne! 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 crush'd thy tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of 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.
THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been
On the day of its first dedication,
When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen On high on the ark's holy station;
When even the chosen of Eli, though skill'd
To minister, standing before thee,
Retired from the cloud which the temple then fill'd,
And thy glory made Israel adore thee;
Though awfully grand was thy majesty then,
Yet the worship thy gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.
And by whom was that ritual for ever repealed,
But by Him unto whom it was given
To enter the oracle where is revealed
Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven?
Who having once enter'd, hath shown us the way,
O Lord! how to worship before thee;
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore thee;
"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."-Psalm cxxvii. 2.
Or all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved sleep?"
What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved-
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep—
The senate's shout to patriot vows-
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?— "He giveth His beloved sleep."
What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved-
A little dust, to overweep
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when
"He giveth His beloved sleep."
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