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 Navarre!

O 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 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,

All down our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord, the king!"

"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 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 Andre'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 snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guidingstar,

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

And then we, tho on vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember Saint 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 crusht the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS

BY JOHN MILTON

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, tho my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

THE LAST HOUR

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE

If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sun

Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow

For any one,

All the fight fought, all the short journey through,

What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter,

But just go on,

Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;

But rise and move, and love and smile and pray
For one more day.

And lying down at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear

Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping,
How should I fear?

And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still,
Do Thou Thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie

All the night long; and when the morning splendor
Flushed o'er the sky,

I think that I could smile-could calmly say,
"It is His day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder
Held out a scroll,

On which my life was writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll

To a long century's end its mystic clue,
What should I do?

What could I do, O blest Guide and Master,
Other than this:

Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Nor fear to miss

The road, altho so very long it be,
While led by Thee?