Hurrah! nurrah! a single field hath turned 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 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.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the king."

"An' 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 Navarre.”

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Offife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andrè's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite 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 friendship 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;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Roxy hath ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
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 footcloth meet for Henry 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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! Macaulay.

ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.

Lost! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,
And graved in Paradise ;

Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost where the thoughtless throng
In fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.
Yet to my hand 'twas given
A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain;
That gem of countless cost
Can ne'er be mine again.
I offer no reward,

For, till these heart-stings sever,
I know that heaven-entrusted gift
Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land
Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scath and loss

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

THE HEATHEN CHINEE:

OR, PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.
WHICH I wish to remark-

And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name,

And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and child-like, As I frequently remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies
Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;

William

But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With a smile that was child-like and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made

Were quite frightful to see—

Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour."
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,

But the floor it was strewed

Like the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah Si had been hiding,
In the game he "did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs;
Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts;

And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers-that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar :

Which the same I am free to maintain.

H

THE RUM MANIAC.

Bret Harte.

"SAY, doctor, may I not have rum,
To quench this burning thirst within?
Here on this cursed bed I lie,

And cannot get one drop of gin.
I ask not health, nor even life.

Life! what a curse it's been to me!
I'd rather sink in deepest hell,
Than drink again its misery.