Down, down with every foreigner, In friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, Right well fought all the Frenchmen Have borne us best in fight; Hath ta'en the cornet white. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; That all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house Which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound Their loudestpoint of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet For Henry 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, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass Then glory to His holy Name And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre ! LORD MACAULAY. XLV CRESCENTIUS. I looked upon his brow,- -no sign He stood as proud by that death-shrine As even o'er despair He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood, the fetters on his hand,— And had that grasp been on the brand, With freer pride than it waved now. Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh— The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before: he rode And tens of thousands thronged the road His helm, his breastplate were of gold, And graved with many a dent, that told Of many a soldier's deed; The sun shone on his sparkling mail And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood, chained and alone, And yet no sound nor sign of fear Wore higher look than his did now. He bent beneath the headsman's stroke A wild shout from the numbers broke Who thronged to see him die. Rome's wail above her only son, L. E. LANDON. XLVI THE WAR-HORSE. The fiery courser, when he hears from far Eager he stands,-then, starting with a bound, DRYDEN. XLVII THE KNIGHT OF TOGGENBURG. "Knight, to love thee, like a sister, Tranquil see thee go; What that starting tear would tell me He with silent anguish listens, Though his heart-strings bleed; There full many a deed of glory But the pang that wrings his bosom |