Poems Every Child Should Know Part 27

And thou, Roch.e.l.le, our own Roch.e.l.le, 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.

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 h.o.a.ry hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living G.o.d, 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, "G.o.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y fray, Press where ye see my white plume s.h.i.+ne, amid 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 p.r.i.c.king fast across St. 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 snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner G.o.d gave them for a prey.

But we of the Religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white.

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How G.o.d hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry 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 ma.s.s for thy poor spearman's souls.

Ho! gallant n.o.bles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our G.o.d hath crushed the tyrant, our G.o.d hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, 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.

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

"The Glove and the Lions" was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of "fair" women. A woman be a "true knight" as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.)

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The n.o.bles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The b.l.o.o.d.y foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,--a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

LEIGH HUNT.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England--not the poem, but the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey (1774-1843).

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west-country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: Pleasant it was to his eye, For from c.o.c.k-crow he had been travelling And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here,"

The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why,"

"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first, G.o.d help the husband then!"

The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"

He to the countryman said; But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch, But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church,"

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE.

"The Nautilus and the Ammonite" finds a place here out of respect to a twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils a.s.sembled, I never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous.

The nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife, Each sent to float in its tiny boat On the wide, wide sea of life.

For each could swim on the ocean's brim, And, when wearied, its sail could furl, And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, In its palace all of pearl.