FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR"

THE WIND IN THE PINES

THE tale was this:

The wind, when first he rose and went abroad

Through the waste region, felt himself at fault,

Wanting a voice; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind,

He woo'd the several trees to give him one. First he besought the ash; the voice she lent Fitfully with a free and lashing change Flung here and there its sad uncertainties: The aspen next; a flutter'd frivolous twit

ter

Was her sole tribute : from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dress'd her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.

A CHARACTERIZATION

His life was private; safely led, aloof
From the loud world, which yet he under-
stood
Largely and wisely, as no worldling could.
For he, by privilege of his nature proof
Against false glitter, from beneath the roof
Of privacy, as from a cave, survey'd
With steadfast eye its flickering light and
shade,

And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal
Not shorn of action, for the public weal,-
For truth and justice as its warp and woof.
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis-
charged

From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walk'd not singly there;

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,

And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his pikes.

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

Their coward heads, predestin'd 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!

Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make your search

secure ;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kiss'd your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl about the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd at heaven and hell and fate?

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

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths?

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

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war!

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and 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 armor 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 smil'd on us, as roll'd 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 I saw 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."

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 crush'd the tyrant, our
God hath rais'd the slave,
And mock'd 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 Navarre !