He came again, in the light of his fame,
When the red campaign was over;
One heart that in secret had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky ;-
He left his sweet home for battle;
Left his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again--but an altered man :

The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory-spoke of cheer :-
These are words that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother, or orphan's ear,
Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
Half hidden by yonder willow;

There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, But who died on his own home pillow !

The Soldier's Funeral,

The muffled drum roll'd on the air;
Warriors, with stately steps, were there,
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent, and slow, they followed the dead;
The riderless horse was led in the rear;
There were white plumes waving over the bier;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall-
For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain;

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land to die.
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!

"Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!

But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own lov'd shore-
To think that the friends of his youth might weep,
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.

The bugles ceased their wailing sound
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground:
A volley was fired-a blessing said-
One moment's pause-and they left the dead!

I saw a poor and an aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan,

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold, damp ground;
He rais'd his head, his tears were done-
The father had prayed o'er his only son!

The Battle of the League.

Now, glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!

And let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy cornfields 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 joycus 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 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 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 Power, who rules the fate of war,

To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us all in 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 roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our lines, a deafening shout, Long live 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 frayPress 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 pipe, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres 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, heaven 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 coats of 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."

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 Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return!

Ho! Philip, send for charity, your Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearsmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward by 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.