And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil dren's ills, THE ARMADA. And tremble when she thinks on the edge of Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's England's sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.1 1 Sir Thomas Fairfax (1612-1671), who commanded the army of the Parliament during England's Civil Wars, was the true hero of the Battle of Naseby. His gallant charge at the head of the right wing of his army insured the success of Cromwell's division. George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham (1627–1688), author of "The Rehearsal," and other dramatic pieces, who married Fairfax's daughter Mary, was one of the wildest of the gay and dissolute courtiers of the period; but that he appreciated the noble qualities of his father-in-law is evident from the following eulogistic lines: EPITAPH ON FAIRFAX BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho, gunners! fire a lond salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! Thou sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious SEMPER EADEM! the banner of our pride! The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, [spurring in; As fast from every village round the horse came The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the scroll of gold: Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea: warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Such night in England ne'er hath beeu, nor e'er Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those again shall be. bright couriers forth: From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; started for the North; Aud on and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly All night from tower to tower they sprang, they war-flame spread; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head: sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; [of Wales; like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each south-Till, ern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glitter lonely height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answer Navarre! [dance, Now let there be the merry sound of music and the At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O ing fires; spires; 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 King Henry of Navarre! Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, [mayne. With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and AlNow, 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, [Navarre. Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of We saw the army of the League drawn out in long Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, Aud 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, [blood; And good Coligui's hoary hair all dabbled with his And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, [varre. To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Na 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 then, "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, [Navarre! As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of 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 St. Généviève, 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. Hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar ing culverin! are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! Sir Henry Taylor. Taylor (1800-18..) was a native of the County of Durham, England. In 1827 appeared his play of "Isaac Comnenus," which, says Southey, "met with few readers, and was hardly heard of." In 1834 his great dramatic poem of "Philip Van Artevelde" gave him at once an assured rank in English literature. It has gone through eight editions. Some of his other works are "Edwin the Fair," a historical drama, 1842; "The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems," 1847; "Notes from Life," 1847; "A Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems," 1868. A baronetcy was bestowed on him, and he was known as Sir Henry Taylor. Crabb Robinson says of him: "His manners are shy, and he is more a man of letters than of the world." IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE HON. EDWARD ERNEST VILLIERS. I. A grace though melancholy, manly too, Aud sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between, II. And even the stranger, though he saw not these, A simple grace and gentle dignity, That failed not at the first accost to please; III. His life was private; safely led, aloof IV. But farther may we pass not; for the ground Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. Friend of my youth! though younger, yet my guide; I shaped my way of life for many a year, WHAT MAKES A HERO? What makes a hero?-not success, not fame, Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim Of glutted avarice-caps tossed up in air, Or pen of journalist, with flourish fair, Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name— These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare ; His rightful tribute, not his end or aim, Or true reward; for never yet did these Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease. What makes a hero?-an heroic mind, Expressed in action, in endurance proved; And if there be pre-eminence of right, And troubled heart of thine; sustain it here, Adri. What was it that you said then? If you love, Why have you thus tormented me? Arter. Be calm; And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fixed, Derived through pain, well suffered, to the height Thou hast beheld me living heretofore Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved, Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind, Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, But worse-ingratitude and poisonous darts, Launched by the country he had served and loved; This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, This in the strength of silence to endure, A dignity to noble deeds imparts, Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown; This is the hero's complement and crown; This missed, one struggle had been wanting One glorious triumph of the heroic will, One self-approval in his heart of hearts. As one retired in staid tranquillity: EXTRACT FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE." The words and looks which seemed all confidence, But let them be-it matters not; I, too, Yet hath the heart of each declared its love Adri. I trusted not. I hoped that I was loved, And leave myself no choice of vantage ground, Arter. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love; |