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 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!"

"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 oriflame 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 St. André'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,
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 ?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day,

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey;
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good Lord of Bosny 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 God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His
church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point

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 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.

THE THREE SONS.

REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould;
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish

years.

I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency;
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his
mind;

The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find;
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all;
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext,

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the

next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which

he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my

knee:

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brothers, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love reveal-

ing.

When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street,

Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet;

A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone,

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.

His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may

prove,

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love, which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to

dwell.

To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth
feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessèd infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more, this weary load of flesh,

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest

things.

And trust that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must

be:

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain;

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

HAVELOCK'S

MARCH ON
ON CAWNPORE.

Ir was sixteen hundred rank and file with native levies made,
Two thousand men of horse and foot, true each as his good blade;
And at their head rode Havelock, his fearless forehead bare-
His warrior locks worn thin and white, waving with every air.
Well knew that noble General what gallant souls he led,—
Right well his stalwart Highlanders knew too that snowy head;
And through the night, by that pale light, forward the columns
strode

Over the yawning nullah and along the deep sand road.

Fording the rain-swelled river-wave, breasting the weary hill,
One thought alone in every heart, one purpose working still:
To reach betimes the battle, and their leagured brothers save,
Or bring the villain slayers to their victims' bloody grave.
And left and right the scouts come in, and tell of squadrons near,
But check no forward footsteps, and raise no thought of fear,
Till the shrill jungle-chicken's cry hailed the day's rosy sign,
And the grey light of morning showed the grim rebel line.

Out spoke our gallant leader, "Look! yonder goes the way
To where our o'erpressed brothers stand, and where the butchers
slay-

And in our road the knaves stand thick; wherefore, as you may

see,

Our path lies through their ranks, and carved shall quickly be."
They only rested from their march a thirty minutes space,
Then rose and met their swarming foes in the sun's bright'ning

face;

And long before the dew was dry, or sounds of morning still, The rattle of the strife was done the slaves flew o'er the hill.

Onward again—the good grey head foremost in fight and march, While the sun's blazing gold burned up, through heaven's cloudless arch.

No hoarse command, no heed of hand, nor voice in all their way, To bid them close these dust-clad files, to keep their just array; The hope that bears their captain on, the rage that scorneth

rest,

Throbs in the soldier's hones; heart, burns in the drummer's breast