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O’er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain,
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark-blue sea,
As then shall meet in thee ! HEBER.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege ng 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 mourn.
ing 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 turn'd the
chance of war, Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
0! 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
impurpled 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
The King is come to marshal us, in all his ar
mour 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 line, a deafening shout, “ God save
our Lord the King !” “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well
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
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 we 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 rush'd, while,
like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blaz'd 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, 66 Remember St Bartholomew,” was pass'd 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, 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 crush'd the tyrant, our God
hath rais'd the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the va
lour of the brave.
Then glory to his Holy name, from whom all
glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI's
EXHIBITION. And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a
story!) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy,
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune ; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground,
Mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and fea
Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ?