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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 Bis

cay 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 St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to


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 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 Lor

raine. 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


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 St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward

to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of

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




Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour
When the children of darkness and evil had

power, When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain;
Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids,
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and forever. The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.
Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign;
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.





OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye


Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the


Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses


And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced

hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the


Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The General rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a


shout, Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the Cause! for the Church, for the Laws! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the


The furious German comes, with his clarions and his

drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close

your ranks; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are

gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right !

Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon bath a wound; the centre hath given

ground: Hark! hark ! – What means the trampling of horse

men on our rear ? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 't is

he, boys.

Bear up another minute : brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the

dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar : And he — he turns, he flies:— shame on those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war,

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