Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider, and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!
LORD BYRON.
IVRY.
A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.
Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited "King
Henry of Navarre" every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but
you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain
word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little
town. (1800-59.)
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, O 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.
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