While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around-;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.

LESSON 37.

POETS AND THEIR POETRY.

V. LORD MACAULAY.

Almayne, Germany (L'Alle- | Guelders, a province of the

Netherlands

magne) Appenzel, Switzerland Coligni, a French admiral, the first victim in the massacre of St. Bartholo

a canton of Lorraine, name of the seat of the Guise family Mayenne, brother of Duke

of Guise

oriflamme, the ancient royal
banner of France
Philip, king of Spain
pistoles, Spanish gold coins,
worth about 16s. each
Rochelle, a seaport on the
west coast of France

extraordinary

distinguished

graciously

empurpled

literature

truncheon

university

vengeance

Thomas Babington Macaulay was born in Leicestershire, on the 25th of October 1800. His parents were very intelligent and pious people, and on intimate terms with the celebrated Hannah More. This lady, in speaking of young Macaulay, calls him a jewel of a boy, whose only fault is

that he will not read prose,' poetry being his great passion. While very young he distinguished himself in various branches of education, was an immense reader, and wrote thousands of verses.

At eighteen years of age he entered the University of Cambridge, where his reputation was increased year by year, as he carried off the prizes for literary and classical attainments.

For some years he was engaged in writing for

the chief magazines of the day. In 1826 he was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn. He never practised much as a lawyer, his chief triumphs during this period being won as a contributor to the Edinburgh Review. Four years afterwards (in 1830) he entered the House of Commons as member for Leeds; but his speeches never equalled the power of his pen. Being made secretary of the Board of Control for India, he went out to that country, and remained there for more than two years, in order to draw up a reformed code for the better government of that land. After his return to England he devoted himself chiefly to literature, and earned for himself a name for scholarship and brilliant writing which few have equalled, and scarcely any surpassed.

His acquaintance with ancient and modern languages was very extensive; his knowledge of the history and literature of many countries was extensive too. His extraordinary memory was the wonder and admiration of his friends; he seemed scarcely to forget anything he had once heard or seen. Although he is famed as an essayist, a historian, and a critic, rather than as a poet, there are few schoolboys who are not fond of reading his Horatius and The Armada. The piece we have selected for this lesson is entitled Ivry: A Song of the Huguenots, and is founded upon a battle which took place between Henry IV., the first Bourbon sovereign of France, and the Catholic or League party, in the neighbourhood of Paris, 1590.

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

of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, 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 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.

eye;

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his 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!'

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he

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 St. 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;