The American Union Speaker Part 33

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 has come to marshal us, in all his armor 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, in 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! promise yet of such a b.l.o.o.d.y fray,-- Press where ye see my white plume shine, 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 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 now, 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, 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 fields are heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van "Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was pa.s.sed from man to man.

But out spake gentle Henry, then--"No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go."

O! 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 ma.s.s for thy poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant n.o.bles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of St. 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 and the valor of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

T. B. Macaulay.

CXCI.

THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers.

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.

and 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the last of many scars; But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, and I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty h.o.a.rd, I let them take whate're they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,--too fond for idle scorning,-- Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we pa.s.sed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk And her little hand lay lightly! confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoa.r.s.er,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with b.l.o.o.d.y corpses strewn; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

Mrs Norton.

CXCII.

"GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER."

Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood,-- All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food.

I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see,-- I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother, How could I look to you, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too?

For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child.

The queen has lands and gold, mother, The queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold,-- A babe that is dying of want, mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one?

Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere! die, Give me three grains of corn.

Miss Edwards.

CXCIII.

TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY.

Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon-- With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant pa.s.sed in safety. G.o.d of heaven!

Where slept thy thunderbolts?

O LIBERTY!

Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be.

Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom In spots where man has never dared to tread; So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee, And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay,--and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot.

Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes A crown of glory on his h.o.a.ry head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for Freedom, or with her to die!

O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my G.o.d And bless Him that it was so. It was free,-- From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,-- Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun!

How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiled To see Him shake His lightnings o'er my head, And think! had no master save His own!

Ye know the jutting cliff; round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pa.s.s? Overtaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there,--the thought that mine was free, Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is THE LAND of LIBERTY!

J. S. Knowles.

CXCIV.

WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.