Roll-roll!. With 66 Brothers, what do ye here, Slowly and sadly as ye pass along, your dull march and low funereal song?" "Comrade! we bear a bier! I saw him fall! And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought, (Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought !) That, had he died beneath his native skies, Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes And wept beside his pall!" G. W. Patten. CXC. 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 the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, 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 ! O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, He looked upon his People, and a tear was in his eye; "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, amid 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; And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van Ho! maidens of Vienna ! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! 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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. A CXCI. THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN. SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, “Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen dear Bingen on the Rhine! "There's another - not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along - I heard, or seemed to hear, talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarser, -- weak, his grasp was childish His eyes put on a dying look- he sighed and ceased to speak: And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down As it shone on distant Bingen fair Bingen on the Rhine! Mrs. Norton. CXCII. "GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.” IVE me three grains of corn, mother, GIVE Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have, I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, And half the agony of such a death It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood, All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, How could I look to you, mother, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, |