High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still,— All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill:

Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales, Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely

height,

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of

light,

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless

plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,

And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled

pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

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.

As thou wert constant in our ilis, 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 King 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 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 empurpled

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 armour 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, "God save our lord

the king!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor 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 St. André'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, 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 passed 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 spear

men's souls!

Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be

bright!

Ho, burghers of Saint Geneviève, keep watch and ward to

night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

TAYLOR.

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT

THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.-TIME-DAYBREAK.

God of

Artevelde (alone). THERE lies a sleeping city.

dreams!

What an unreal and fantastic world

Is going on below!

Within the sweep of yon encircling wall,

How many a large creation of the night,
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,
Peopled with busy transitory groups,

Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
-If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes
They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion.
-I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food,
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind,
And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.

I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet.
The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage,