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I have seen the scimetar in the Sahib's hand, and the sceptre in the Rajah's; I have seen the one rusted, and the other broken. And I have seen the lute ring over the graves of the Sahib and the Rajah. Let me then take the lute, and with it win thee.-Bengalee Poem.

THE masters of the earth have died,
Their kingly strength is dust and air!
Within their breasts of fire and pride,
The worm has made his quiet lair.
I feel the world is vanity,

And take my lute and sing to thee.
I saw the Rajah arm'd for war;

I saw his chieftains trampling round ;
I saw his banner like a star;

I heard his trumpet's stormy sound:
On rush'd they, like the rising sea-
I took my lute, and sang to thee.

The eve was on the mountain's brow:
I heard the echo of despair;

I saw the host returning slow

The Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare,
I saw his gore, and wept to see:-
That eve I touch'd no lute to thee.

My steps were once in lordly halls,
My brow once wore the diadem,
A thousand barbs were in my stalls,
Upon my banner blazed the gem:-
All fled like dreams, so let them flee-
I take my lute, and sing to thee.

What's life?-at best a wandering breath,
When saddest, but a passing sigh;
When happiest, but a summer wreath-
A sigh of roses floating by.

Soon, soon alike the bond and free-
So sings my lute, and sings to thee.
Then come, Sherene! I've found a grove,
Beneath a wild hill's purple van,
Where coos the silver-bosom'd dove;
Where the wild peacock spreads his fan;
Where springs the roebuck in his glee:
Love, hear my lute, it sings to thee.
There, on the valley's blossom'd slope,
Shines to the sun the pheasant's plume,
There, like a ray, the antelope

Gleams through the thicket's fragrant gloom.
The stately camel bends the knee :-
Love, hear my lute-""Tis all for thee."
There morn is like a new-waked rose,
And like a rosy shower the noon;
And evening, like a sweet song's close;
And like a sun half veil'd, the moon.
But dark my Paradise will be:-
Soul of my soul, I die for thee.



Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of


Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh 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 Na


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


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,

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To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Na


The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour


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, 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 Na


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 St. André's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Al


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 turn'd 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


Down, down with every foreigner, but let your bre thren 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 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 crush'd the 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


And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Na




THERE is a multitude, in number like
The waves of the wide ocean; and as still
As are those waters, when the summer breeze
Sleeps on the moveless billow; there is awe
On every countenance; and each doth stand
In gasping breathlessness, as terror chain'd
The life-pulse down; or, as they deem'd, a sound
Might call down new destruction on their heads.—
The sun look'd smiling from his clear blue throne,
And Nature seem'd to gladden in the ray;
When suddenly a cloud came over heaven,
A black and terrible shadow, as the gloom
Of the destroying angel's form; the wind
Swept past with hollow murmur; and the birds,
Ceasing their song of joyfulness, with mute

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