The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 19

Safe home, safe home in port!

Rent cordage, shattered deck, Tom sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck: But, oh, the joy upon the sh.o.r.e, To tell our voyage,--perils o'er!

The prize, the prize secure!

The athlete nearly fell; Bare all he _could_ endure, And bare not always well: But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor-garland on!

No more the foe can harm; No more of leaguered camp, And cry of night alarm, And need of ready lamp: And yet how nearly he had failed,-- How nearly had that foe prevailed!

The exile is at home!

O nights and days of tears, O longings not to roam, O sins, and doubts, and fears: What matter now this bitter fray?

The King has wiped those tears away.

ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM, A.D. 870 (translated by J. M. Neale).

THE LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.

G.o.d moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; G.o.d is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.

LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home-- Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on, O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

IVRY.

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

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 cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Roch.e.l.le, our own Roch.e.l.le, 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 rose 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 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 is 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, a 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 I promise yet of such a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 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,--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 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny 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 G.o.d 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 ma.s.s for thy poor spear-men's souls.

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