'Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"
"AND where is he?" Not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend!
That form beloved he marks no more;
Those scenes admired no more shall see ;-
Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair, but where is he?
No, no, the radiance is not dim,
That used to gild his favourite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still ;
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his garden be,
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, where is he?'
His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now the proud display?
His-riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame;-but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seemed proudly strong, and where is he?
The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there; The life has gone, the breath has fled, And what has been, no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread, O where are they, and where is he? New European Magazine.
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 King Henry of Navarre.
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 peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's 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 armour 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.'
'An 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 Navarre.'
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 Andrè'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 now,-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! 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.'
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 Saint 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.
Knight's Quarterly Magazine.
OH! had my fate been joined with thine
As once this pledge appeared a token;
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,
To thee the wise and old reproving :They know my sins, but do not know "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For, once, my soul like thine was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestowed by thee upon another.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet, let my rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid,
"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid;
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,—
This tiresome round of palling pleasures,— These varied loves,-these matron fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures.
If thou wert mine, had all been hushed;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flushed,
But bloomed in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,-
For Nature seemed to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorred deceit,-
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But, now, I seek for other joys;—
To think, would drive my soul to madness!— In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.
ALTHOUGH the tear-drop gliding
Makes thee lovelier than before,
Yet weep not at my chiding,-
I'll never chide thee more.
Let thy lip no longer quiver,
Let thy bosom's heaving cease,
Though they lend more bliss than ever
To the long, long kiss of peace.
Could my lips with scorn deceive thee,
I might boast our broken tie;
But to lose thee, and to leave thee,
Were to part with peace and die.
New Monthly Magazine.
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