THE THREE BEATS.
Roll—roll!—How gladly swell the distant notes
From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats!
Roll—roll!—On, gorgeously they come,
With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way,
With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:—
"What do ye here, my merry comrades,—say?"—
"We beat the gathering drum;
'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone,
To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow,
When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone,
It steals upon his ear,—this martial call
Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all
"Its pageantry and show!"
Roll—roll!—"What is it that ye beat?"
"We sound the charge!—On with the courser fleet!—
Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly,
We swear to do or die!—
'T is this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath,
Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death;
And when his hand,
Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain,
'T is this which prompts him madly once again
To seize the bloody brand!"
Roll—roll!—"Brothers, what do ye here,
Slowly and sadly as ye pass along,
With your dull march and low funereal song?"
"Comrade! we bear a bier!
I saw him fall!
And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought,
(Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!)
That, had he died beneath his native skies,
Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes
And wept beside his pall!"
G. W. Patten.
CXC.
THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
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 the dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, 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 turned the chance of war!
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!
O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League draw 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 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, "God 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 bloody 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 pricking fast across Saint 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.