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 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.

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 look'd 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 Heury 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 look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smil'd 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 I saw 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."

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 St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;

For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath rais'd the slave,

And mock'd 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 !

In its full breadth of shade; the coming sun Hidden as yet behind: the other mount, Slanting oppos'd, swept with an eastward face,

Catching the golden light. Now, while the peal

Of the ascending chase told that the rout Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly Along the broad and sunny slope appear'd The shadow of a stag that fled across, Follow'd by a Giant's shadow with a spear!

"Hunter of Shadows, thou thyself a Shade,"

Be comforted in this, that substance holds No higher attributes; one sovereign law Alike develops both, and each shall hunt Its proper object, each in turn commanding The primal impulse, till gaunt Time become A Shadow cast on Space- to fluctuate, Waiting the breath of the Creative Power To give new types for substance yet unknown:

So from faint nebula bright worlds are born; So worlds return to vapor. Dreams design Most solid lasting things, and from the eye That searches life, death evermore retreats.

Starward, then swooping down the hemi

sphere

Upon the lengthening javelins of the blast.
Why paus'd I in the palace-groves to dream
Of bliss, with all its substance in my reach?
Why not at once, with thee enfolded, whirl
Deep down the abyss of ecstasy, to melt
All brain and being where no reason is,
Or else the source of reason? But the roar
Of Time's great wings, which ne'er had
driven me

By dread events, nor broken-down old age,
Back on myself, the close experience

Of false mankind, with whispers cold and dry

As snake-songs midst stone hollows, thus has taught me,

The giant hunter, laugh'd at by the world, Not to forget the substance in the dream Which breeds it. Both must melt and

Of cedar was it, lofty in its glooms When the sun hung o'erhead, and, in its darkness,

Like Night when giving birth to Time's first pulse.

Silence had ever dwelt there; but of late Came faint sounds, with a cadence droning low,

From the far depths, as of a cataract Whose echoes midst incumbent foliage died. From one high mountain gush'd a flowing stream,

Which through the forest pass'd, and found a fall

Within, none knew where, then roll'd tow'rds the sea.

There, underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam

Of sunrise through the roofing's chasm is thrown

Upon a grassy plot below, whereon

The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream Swift rolling tow'rds the cataract, and drinks deeply.

Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks,
While ever and anon the nightingale,
Not waiting for the evening, swells his
hymn -

His one sustain'd and heaven - aspiring

Our inmost powers, fresh wing'd, shall soar and dream

In realms of Elysian gleam, whose airlight-flowers,

Will ever be, though vague, most fair, most sweet,

Better than memory.
Look yonder, love!
What solemn image through the trunks is
straying?

And now he doth not move, yet never turns
On us his visage of rapt vacancy!
It is Oblivion. In his hand - though nought
Knows he of this — a dusky purple flower
Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see!
He wanders into mist, and now is lost.
Within his brain what lovely realms of
death

Are pictur'd, and what knowledge through the doors

Of his forgetfulness of all the earth
A path may gain? Then turn thee, love,