16

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,-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. May

enne hath turned his rein.

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40

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 Saint Bartholomew," was passed

from man to man.

But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman

is my foe:

45

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?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who

fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for

a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in

fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the

cornet white.

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Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath

ta'en,

The cornet white, with crosses black, the flag

of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

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How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry

of Navarre.

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Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lu

cerne;

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.

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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.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all

OUR band is few but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil:

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

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24

36

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads—
The glitter of their rifles,

The

scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp —
A moment-and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

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60

1831.