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166 SONGS FOR |
BOYHOOD. |
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Hurra! hurra! a single field hath turned the
chauce of war; Hurra ! hurra! for I vry, and King 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 Egrnont's Flem�ish 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 Coligui'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 armor
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, in deafening shout, "God save
our lord the King!" �'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 amidst
the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Na�varre."
Hurra! the foes are moving! Hark to the min�gled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar�ing culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint An�dy's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres and Al-mayne. |
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen
of France, Charge for the golden lilies now! 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! Mayenue
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 St. Bartholomew !" was passed from
man to man. But out spake gentle Henry theu : " No French�man 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 ?
Ho ! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lu�cerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who nev�er 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 valor of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glo�ries are;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! |
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