And such as she who suckled thee,
Even such be thou and thine.
Leave to the soft Campanian
His baths and his perfumes;
Leave to the sordid race of Tyre
Their dyeing-vats and looms;
Leave to the sons of Carthage
The rudder and the oar;

Leave to the Greek his marble Nymphs
And scrolls of wordy lore.

"Thine, Roman, is the pilum:
Roman, the sword is thine,

The even trench, the bristling mound,
The legion's ordered line;
And thine the wheels of triumph,
Which with their laurelled train
Move slowly up the shouting streets
To Jove's eternal fane.

"Beneath thy yoke the Volscian
Shall veil his lofty brow;
Soft Capua's curled revellers
Before thy chair shall bow:

The Lucumoes of Arnus

Shall quake thy rods to see:

And the proud Samnite's heart of steel Shall yield to only thee.

"The Gaul shall come against thee

From the land of snow and night; Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies To the raven and the kite.

"The Greek shall come against thee,
The conqueror of the East.
Beside him stalks to battle

The huge earth-shaking beast,
The beast on whom the castle

With all its guards doth stand, The beast who hath between his eyes The serpent for a hand. First march the bold Epirotes,

Wedged close with shield and spear; And the ranks of false Tarentum

Are glittering in the rear.

"The ranks of false Tarentum
Like hunted sheep shall fly :
In vain the bold Epirotes

Shall round their standards die:
And Apennine's gray vultures
Shall have a noble feast
On the fat and on the eyes

Of the huge earth-shaking beast.

"Hurrah! for the good weapons

That keep the War-god's land.
Hurrah! for Rome's stout pilum
In a stout Roman hand.

Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword
That through the thick array
Of levelled spears and serried shields
Hews deep its gory way.
"Hurrah! for the great triumph
That stretches many a mile.
Hurrah! for the wan captives
That pass in endless file.

Ho! bold Epirotes, whither

Hath the Red King taken flight?

IVRY.

Ho! dogs of false Tarentum,

Is not the gown washed white? "Hurrah! for the great triumph

That stretches many a mile.
Hurrah! for the rich dye of Tyre,
And the fine web of Nile,
The helmets gay with plumage

Torn from the pheasant's wings,
The belts set thick with starry gems
That shone on Indian kings,
The urns of massy silver,

The goblets rough with gold,
The many-colored tablets bright
With loves and wars of old,
The stone that breathes and struggles,
The brass that seems to speak ;—
Such cunning they who dwell on high
Have given unto the Greek.
"Hurrah! for Manius Curius,
The bravest son of Rome,
Thrice in utmost need sent forth,
Thrice drawn in triumph home.
Weave, weave, for Manius Curius
The third embroidered gown:
Make ready the third lofty car,

And twine the third green crown,
And yoke the steeds of Rosea

With necks like a bended bow:
And deck the bull, Mevania's bull,
The bull as white as snow.

"Blest and thrice blest the Roman
Who sees Rome's brightest day,
Who sees that long victorious pomp
Wind down the Sacred Way,
And through the bellowing Forum,
And round the Suppliant's grove,
Up to the everlasting gates
Of Capitolian Jove.

"Then where, o'er two bright havens,
The towers of Corinth frown;
Where the gigantic King of day

On his own Rhodes looks down;
Where soft Orontes murmurs
Beneath the laurel shades:
Where Nile reflects the endless length
Of dark-red colonnades ;

Where in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts:

Where fur-clad hunters wander
Amidst the Northern ice;

Where through the sand of morning-land
The camel bears the spice;
Where Atlas flings his shadow

Far o'er the Western foam,

Shall be great fear on all who hear
The mighty name of Rome."

IVRY.

189

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 turned 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; [peers, With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 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.

A

spears in rest,

thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white[ta'en, Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath 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 foot cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

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!

heaven, and hell, and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and your oaths?

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Rhine!"

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 brokenwe 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 Skippen hath a wound-the centre hath given ground.

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?

Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys!

Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!

O wake, Madonna, wake! E'en now the purple lake dappled o'er with amber flakes of light; A glow is on the hill,

And every trickling rill

maids;

O fly, Madonna, fly!

Lest day and envy spy

What only love and night may safely know;

Fly, and tread softly, dear!
Lest those who hate us hear

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED was born in London in 1802. He was the son of a wealthy lawyer. At Eton he was one of the editors of the Etonian. At Trinity College, Cambridge, where he gained numerous prizes for poetry, he was a literary rival of Macaulay. While in College, he wrote for Knight's Quarterly Magazine. He graduated in 1825, studied law, and was admitted to the bar in 1829. He married in 1835.

In 1830 Praed entered Parliament as member for St. Germain, Cornwall, and soon became prominent as a conservative. In 1834 he was appointed secretary of the Board of Control, and he subsequently received other offices,

THERE was a dragon in Arthur's time,

When dragons and griffins were voted "prime,"
Of monstrous reputation:

Up and down, and far and wide,
He roamed about in his scaly pride;
And ever, at morn and eventide,

He made such rivers of blood to run

As shocked the sight of the blushing sun,
And deluged half the nation.

It was a pretty monster, too,
With a crimson head, and a body blue,
And wings of a warm and delicate hue,
Like the glow of a deep carnation:
And the terrible tail that lay behind,
Reached out so far as it twisted and twined,
That a couple of dwarfs, of wondrous strength,
Bore, when he travelled, the horrible length,
Like a Duke's at the coronation.
His mouth had lost one ivory tooth,
Or the dragon had been, in very sooth,
No insignificant charmer;

And that-alas! he had ruined it,
When on new-year's day, in a hungry fit,
He swallowed a tough and a terrible bit-
Sir Lob, in his brazen armor.

Swift and light were his steps on the ground,
Strong and smooth was his hide around,
For the weapons which the peasants flung
Ever unfelt or unheeded rung,

VOL. III.-13

among them that of deputy high steward for the University of Cambridge. These offices he resigned in 1838, on account of failing health, and on the 15th of July, 1839, he died. In our literature, Praed stands at the head of makers of vers de société. He not only put into that kind of composition an amount of real poetry which none of his competitors have attained, but even lifted the charade to the realm of true lyric verse. The first collection of his poems was made in Philadelphia in 1844; but it was far from complete, and contained one or two that were not his. A fuller edition, probably complete, was published in New York, in two volumes, in 1864.

Arrow, and stone, and spear, As snow o'er Cynthia's window flits, Or raillery of twenty wits

On a fool's unshrinking ear.

In many a battle the beast had been,
Many a blow he had felt and given:
Sir Digore came with a menacing mien,
But he sent Sir Digore straight to heaven;
Stiff and stour were the arms he wore,

Huge the sword he was wont to clasp; But the sword was little, the armor brittle, Locked in the coil of the dragon's grasp.

He came on Sir Florice of Sesseny Land,
Pretty Sir Florice from over the sea,
And smashed him all as he stepped on the sand,
Cracking his head like a nut from the tree.
No one, till now, had found, I trow,

Any thing good in the scented youth, Who had taken much pains to be rid of his brains,

Before they were sought by the dragon's tooth.

He came on the Sheriff of Hereford,

As he sat him down to his Sunday dinner; And the Sheriff he spoke but this brief word : "St. Francis, be good to a corpulent sinner!" Fat was he, as a Sheriff might be,

From the crown of his head to the tip of his

toe;

But the Sheriff was small, or nothing at all,
When put in the jaws of the dragon foe.

He came on the Abbot of Arnondale,

As he kneeled him down to his morning devotion;

But the dragon he shuddered, and turned his tail

About "with a short uneasy motion."

Iron and steel, for an early meal,

He stomached with ease, or the Muse is a liar;