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Go, yet preserve an indolence of ease-
Surest, when least solicitous, to please.

Lazily bend your saucy eyes on each

Fair face with some soft nothing of a speech;
Shew off your figure in the light quadrille,
Yet in the mazy dance lisp nonsense still;
Or with some melting waltzer, ripe in bloom,
Hop in lascivious contact round the room;
Balance your partner in a graceful curve;
And point the shapely leg's elastic nerve;
So shall bright eyes on your performance dwell,
And beardless fops aspire, ambitious to excel.

FRANCIS I.

RECEIVING KNIGHTHOOD ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE, FROM THE HANDS OF THE CHEVALIER BAYARD.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

After the battle of Marignan, the king, who had killed many with his own hand, and performed feats of great valour, determined, in the spirit of that chivalry which was then almost extinct, to receive knighthood from the hands of the Chevalier Bayard. This he accordingly did on the spot, and afterwards knighted many of his followers.

I.

THE battle-din is over,

And the battle-fire is cold,

And a thousand tales are acting there,

Which never shall be told;

And pain is writ in characters

Love tries in vain to spell,

Where pulse-throbs, low and far between,

Are like a passing-bell!

II.

The sturdy soldier's battle-shout,
Is now a child-like wail,

And his snowy vest is crimson-dyed,
While his crimson cheek is pale;

And painfully-oh! painfully,
The shout of triumph swells,
Along a field whose every sod
Is busy with farewells!

III.

The battle-shock is over,

And the mourners sit apart,

And few the actors gathered round
Each drama of the heart;-
Oh! heavy tales of Marignan
Went down from sire to son,

But of its thousand episodes

The world was told but one!

IV.

Amid the blaze of tapers tall,

That light the holy sign,

But cannot quench the scent of blood,

Within that warrior-shrine,

'Mid banners that are waving yet,

As in the battle-breeze,

And forms that serve (the king—not God)
Upon their bended knees,-

V.

'Mid gentle hearts, that learn to hear The silken page's tale,

Whose troth-plight mingles in their ear,

With yonder widow's wail;

The monarch, with his war-vow stands,

(Hark to that dying cry ! )

And the white-robed priest, with upraised hands, (What curse goes groaning by!)

VI.

And there, upon that bloody field,

And with religion's kiss,

The promise-covenant is sealed

Of many fields like this!

Oh, mitred priest!-the priests of old

Put ashes on the head,

Amid earth's plagues,-and stood between

The living and the dead!

VII.

'Mid hecatombs of slain,

The king becomes a knight,

And girds the sword he swears to stain, In many another fight;

While the dying soldier, at the door,

Collects his labouring breath,

To hear the vow that dedicates
His orphan boy to death!

VIII.

The maiden through the curtain-fold, Looks wan and wildly in,

Her brother by the tent lies cold,

Her lover sits within !

Oh! that all earth's bad pageantries,

Like this, were banished far! The age of Chivalry is gone,

Why not the age of War!

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