60 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 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 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 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! 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 St. 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." TO MRS. HEMANS. Till its romantic spots are hallowed so, 65 The Pilgrim Fathers! how its light doth stream The hoary head, the frank, free face of youth, Stern manhood's brow, and woman's eye of truth- Oh! more than Plato's dream, devoutly there they stand. The lays of many lands-they are thine own- Thou hast a voice, a glad voice for the spring, 66 TO MRS. HEMANS. The last long look to him who was so dear, And thou hast thrown o'er all thy blessed songs More exquisitely fair than art can be, THE MINSTER. BY MRS. HEMANS. SPEAK low-the place is holy to the breath Leave me to linger silently awhile! -Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom. THE MINSTER. Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense mists their sainted pageantry! Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and pow er, Yet not for these Î ask one lingering hour. 67 But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past no trace! By every grief, hath made its might confessed! THEKLA'S SONG. FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. This song is said to have been composed by Schiller, in answer to the inquiries of his friends, respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known. ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know, When from thine eye my floating shadow passed? Was not my work fulfilled, and closed below? Wilt thou ask where the nightingale is gone, Gave the spring breeze what witched thee in its tone? Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,— Where nought again may part what Love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. There shalt thou find us-there with us be blessed, There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, * Wallenstein. |