Stamped on the pyramid that Time Oh, dweller of the crag and cloud, Or through the Northland's wintry night: 'Tis sweet for one's own land to die! The soul of yore, the soul that gave Their glory to our soil and wave, From Vernon's mount and Ashland's grave, THE BATTLE OF 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, Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, The King has come to marshal us, all in his armor drest; 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 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 crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, 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 heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 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! 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. W THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, Work-work-work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "O men, with sisters dear! O men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of death? That phantom of grizzly bone, O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work — work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread- and rags. This shattered roof- and this naked floor A table-a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work - work! From weary chime to chime, Work-work—work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. When the weather is warm and bright- The brooding swallows cling, "Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh, but for one short hour! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope; A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop And still with a voice of dolorous pitch |