The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye:
He look'd 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 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 Navarre."

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 St. 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 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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and
cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"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 St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-
night,
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised
the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the
brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!

MACAULAY.

[Notes: D'Aumale, The Duke of; another leader of the League.

The Flemish Court. Count Egmont, the son of the Count Egmont, whose death on the scaffold in 1568, in consequence of the resistance he offered to the tyranny of Philip II. of Spain, has made the name famous. The son, on the other hand, was the attached servant of Philip II.; and was unnatural enough to say, when reminded of his father, "Talk not of him, he deserved his death."

Remember St. Bartholomew, i.e., the massacre of the Protestants on St. Bartholomew's day, 1572.

Maidens of Vienna: matrons of Lucerne. In reference to the Austrian and Swiss Allies of the League.

Thy Mexican pistoles. Alluding to the riches gained by the Spanish monarchy from her American colonies.

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve = citizens of Paris, of which St. Genevieve was held to be the patron saint.]

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