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 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,

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André'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 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 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 Rosny hath ta'en the cornet

white.

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white has

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 Saint 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.

KINGS.-Shakspeare.

FOR within the hollow crown,

That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp:
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchise, be feared, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable and humoured thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle-walls, and-farewell, King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;
For you have but mistook me all this while :

F

I live on bread like you, feel want like you,
Taste grief, need friends, like you: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a King?

SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY

GIRL.

IT is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks;

There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on the brooks;

A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the

air,

A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere.

Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods,

To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening buds;

Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ashtree's root,

To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit?

They tell me that my father's poor-that is no grief

to me

When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye can see ;

They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem;

It may be so and yet, methinks, I do not envy them.