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Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

“No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."

Sir W. Scott.

THE LION.

High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,
The rampant Lion shows his kingly face;
His ample jaws extend from side to side,
His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide;
In silver shag the sovereign form is drest,
A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest ;
Elate with pride, he seems to assert his reign,
And stands, the glory of his wide domain.

Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sigłt But sign and pledge of welcome and delight: To him the noblest guest the town detains, Flies for repast, and in his court remains ;

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178

THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.

Him too the crowd with longing looks admire,
Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire:
Here not a comfort shall to them be lost
Who never ask or never feel the cost.

The ample yards on either side contain Buildings where order and distinction reign ;The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest, The ready chaise and driver smartly drest ; Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there, And high-fed prancers many a raw-boned pair. On all without a lordly host sustains The care of empire, and observant reigns ; The parting guest beholds him at his side, With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride; Round all the place his eyes all objects meet, Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet. O'er all within the lady-hostess rules, Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools ; To every guest the appropriate speech is made, And every duty with distinction paid; Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite“ Your honour's servant-Mister Smith, good night."

Crabbe.

THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.

The King is come to marshal us, all in his armour

drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern

and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing

to wing,

THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.

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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 Oriflamme to day the helmet of Navarre.” Hurrah! the foes are coming. 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 we love, fair gentlemen of

France, Charge for the Golden Lilies—upon them with the

lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a

guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of

Navarre.

in rest,

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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

180

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our

van, “Remember St. Bartholomew !” was pass'd 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 St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward

to-night; For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave, And mock'd 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 !

Macaulay.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill :

AN INDIAN AT HIS FATHERS' BURYING-PLACE.

181

Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame, or private breath :

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who hath his life from rumours freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great :

Who God doth late and early pray,

More of his grace and gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend !

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Wotton.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF

HIS FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot~I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

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