Chapter 27

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League draw 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 God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor 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 rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall,--as fall full well he may, For never saw! promise yet of such a bloody fray,-- Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid 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 Saint André'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 fields are heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van "Remember Saint 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." O! 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 crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! T. B. Macaulay.

CXCI.

THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. and 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, and I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate're they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,--too fond for idle scorning,-- Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk And her little hand lay lightly! confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! Mrs Norton.

CXCII.

"GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER."

Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood,-- All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see,-- I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother, How could I look to you, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child.

The queen has lands and gold, mother, The queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold,-- A babe that is dying of want, mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere! die, Give me three grains of corn. Miss Edwards.

CXCIII.

TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY.

Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon-- With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven! Where slept thy thunderbolts?

O LIBERTY! Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be. Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom In spots where man has never dared to tread; So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee, And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay,--and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot.

Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes A crown of glory on his hoary head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for Freedom, or with her to die!

O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God And bless Him that it was so. It was free,-- From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,-- Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiled To see Him shake His lightnings o'er my head, And think! had no master save His own!

Ye know the jutting cliff; round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? Overtaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there,--the thought that mine was free, Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is THE LAND of LIBERTY! J. S. Knowles.

CXCIV.

WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

Ye crags and peaks: I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands ye first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again!--O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty, and how free! Ye are the things that tower, that shine,--whose smile Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again!--I call to you With all my voice!--I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you! --Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow O'er the abyss;--his broad-expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there without their aid, By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my brow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot!-- 'T was Liberty! I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away! J. S. Knowles.

CXCV.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last, strong agony, a dying warrior lay,-- The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I--ha! ha! must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear; Think ye he's entered at my gate--has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;-- I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!--defy--and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in. Up with my banner on the wall,--the banquet board prepare,-- Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread, And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with gilded falchion, sat.

"Fill every beaker up, my men! pour forth the cheering wine! There 's life and strength in every drop,--thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?--mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim!

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!--forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly!--louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all!--and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'"

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a, deafening cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! Do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him!--let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat--dead! A. G. Greene.

CXCVI.

THE WATER DRINKER.

O, water for me! Bright water for me, And wine for the tremulous debauchee. Water cooleth the brow, and cooleth the brain, And maketh the faint one strong again; It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, All freshness, like infant purity; O, water, bright water, for me, for me! Give wine, give wine, to the debauchee!

Fill to the brim! fill, fill to the brim; Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim! For my hand is steady, my eye is true, For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew. O, water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores which it yieldeth are vigor and health. So water, pure water, for one, for me! And wine for the tremulous debauchee.

Fill again to the brim, again to the brim! For water strengtheneth life and limb! To the days of the aged it addeth length, To the might of the strong it addeth strength; It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight, 'T is like quaffing a goblet of morning light! So, water, I will drink nothing but thee, Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride, Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride, And, leading a band of laughing hours, Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers, O! cheerily then my voice is heard Mingling with that of the soaring bird, Who flingeth abroad his matin loud As he freshens his wing in the cold, gray cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying, and weaving anew Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea, How gently, O sleep, fall thy poppies on me! For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright, And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night. So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah! Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star, Hurrah for bright water! hurrah! hurrah! E. Johnson.

CXCVII.

CHAMOUNI.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Riseth from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As will a wedge. But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer, I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,-- So sweet we know not we are listening to it,-- Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven.

Awake, my soul! Not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and silent ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn.

Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness of the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,-- Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald--wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jaggéd rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded,--and the silence came,-- "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest"?