"Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre!" "

VI.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baål; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Now

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

IVRY.

OW 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 cornfields 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.

Turrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Na

The king is come to marshal us in all his armor dressed,

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, "God

Down all our line, a deafening shout:

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 snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, Ilke a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

enne hath turned his rein,

count is slain.

fore a Biscay gale;

flags, and cloven mail,

the fate of war,

To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

along our van,

"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed

from man to man;

SONG OF THE GREEK POET. (From "Don Juan," Canto III.)

THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of day— “And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silence still? and silent all?

Ah no!-the voices of the dead

Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise, we come, we come!" "Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble callHow answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Phyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Phyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these?
It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served—but served Polycrates,
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend;

"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gatebolts undrew,

Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,

Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffield 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church steeple we heard the half chime;

So Joris broke silence with: "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every

We'll remember at Aix-" for one heard the quick wheeze

through,

Behind shut the postern, the light sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great расе,

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;

staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and

shrank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the

sky;

tight,

ble like chaff;