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O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,

Across the dark-blue sea,
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee! HEBER.

BATTLE-HYMN. 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 mourn

ing 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 turn'd the

chance of war, Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O ! 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 rode 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

impurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with

his blood; And we cried unto the living God, 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 ar

mour 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 roll'd from

wing to wing, 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 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

André'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 in rest, 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 blaz'd the helmet of Navarre.

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 heaped with bleeding steeds, and

flags, and cloven mail. 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 Saint Genevieve, keep watch

and ward to-night. For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God

hath rais'd the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the va

lour of the brave.

Then glory to his Holy name, from whom all

glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of

Navarre.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S

EXHIBITION. And thou hast walk'd about how strange a

story !) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy,

Thou hast a tonguecome let us hear its tune ; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground,

Mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and fea

tures.

Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ?

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