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Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, or a neaier one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
0! it was pitiful -
Near a whole city full,
Home had she none!
Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
When the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shivern But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river. Mad, from life's history, Glad, to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled Anywhere! anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran;
Over the brink of it,
Picture it - think of its
Lave in it-drink of it
Then, if you can.
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Smooth and compose them
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity.
Spurned by contumely,
Into her rest;
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.
323. THE DEATH-Bed. We watched her breathing through the night
Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life
Kept surging to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her being out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied,
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet cyelids closed — she had
Another morn than ours.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. -1861. (Manual,
324. Cowper's GRAVE. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying, It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying; Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish, Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. O poets! from a maniac's tongue, was poured the deathless singing; O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging; O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling, And now what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory; And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights
departed, He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted. He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken; Named softly as the household name' of one whom God hath taken!
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 1800-1859.
325. THE BATTLE OF IVRY.' [Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was op. posed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, “My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume - you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the Leaguers underwent a total and bioody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, * Save the French!” and his clemency added a number of the enemies .o his own army.]
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are !
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry oi Navarre! 1 Pronounced E-urer. Ivry-la-Bataille is in the Department of Eure, seventeen miles South-east al Evreux.
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of
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.
Furrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war;
llurral! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Nararr.
U), 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,
Down all our line, in deafening shout, “God save our lord, the Kingi
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 now, upon then 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 helinet of Navarre.
Now God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned his reine
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 then, “No Frenchman is my foe;
Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go."
O, 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 :
Ils : Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles,
11 at Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's soulai
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 slare,
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.
Then glory to his holy Name, from whom all glories are;
Ard g!cry to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navete.