He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled all glories are! from wing to wing, And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry Down all our line, a deafening shout: God of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, save our lord the king! "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody Press where ye see my white plume shine | But we of the religion have borne us best in And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of sand spears in rest, A 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. 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, Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry-"No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go "— Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friend ship 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; King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now! And many a lordly banner God gave them Give a rouse: here 's in hell's despite now. 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! Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; it to the last! For we trampled on the throng of the haughty Stout Skippen hath a wound-the centre hath given ground. and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the Hark! hark! what means the trampling of saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is And the man of blood was there, with his Their heads all stooping low, their points all long essenced hair, in a row: And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge of the Rhine. on the dikes, |