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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 Andre's

plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Al

mayne.

Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of

France,

Charge by the golden lilies,

lance.

upon them with the

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 heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along

our van,

"Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man

to man,

But out spake gentle Henry "No Frenchman is my foe. Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go,

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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 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 glories

are;

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

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The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark without a bound

It runneth the earth's wide regions round:

It plays with the clouds;

it mocks the skies;

Or, like a cradled creature lies!

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be ;

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go ;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter, - I still shall ride and sleep.

I love Oh how I love to ride

On the fierce foaming bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the green sea more and more ;
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was and is to me ;
For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such outcry wild,
As welcomed to life the ocean child.

I have lived, since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover's life,

With wealth to spend, and power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change;
And death whenever he comes to me,

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Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

THE DEAD BIRD.

'Tis her first grief! the bird is dead.

How many a mournful word was said!
How many a tear was o'er it shed!

The anguish of the shock is past,
But memory's thoughts those eyes o'ercast;
As, like the violet gemmed with dew,
Glitters through tears their lovely blue.

'Tis her first grief! - motionless there
Is stretched the fondling of her care;
No longer may she hear his voice;
No longer in his sports rejoice;
And scarcely dare she lift her eyes,
To where her lifeless treasure lies.
But yesterday who could foresee,
That such a change as this might be,
That she should call and he not hear,-
That bird who knew and loved her dear;
Who, when her finger touched her cage,
'Gainst it a mimic war would wage;

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