When The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into Banners the night,

are

Vaving

And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light:

Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the deathlike silence broke,

And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires;

At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;

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 furthest 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,

As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in;

And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent:

Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those When bright couriers forth; Banners

are

High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they Waving

started for the north;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;

All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill;

Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales;

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 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 tower 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 burgh-
ers of Carlisle.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

When Banners

are

Waving

Ivry

A Song of the Huguenots.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh 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 Henry of Na

varre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel When Banners peers,

are

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Waving

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 is 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, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"

When Banners

are

Waring

“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 Na

varre.”

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 An-
dré'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.