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THE LORE-LEI.

67

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked

down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses

strewn ;

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to

shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. MRS. CAROLINE NORTON.

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The air is cool, and it darkens,
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling
In the sunny evening-shine.

And yonder sits a maiden,

The fairest of the fair;

With gold is her garment glittering,
And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb she combs it,
And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous
And powerful melody.

The boatman feels his bosom

With a nameless longing move;

He sees not the gulfs before him,

His gaze is fixed above,

Till over boat and boatman

The Rhine's deep waters run;
And this with her magic singing

The Lore-Lei hath done!

HEINRICH HEINE.

How they brought the good news from

I

Ghent to Aix.

SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he:

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other: we kept the great pace-
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be ;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime-
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze as some bluff river headland its spray;

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 69

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her ;
We'll remember at Aix"-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "

Gallop" gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or

good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Ivry.

[OW 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 daugh

ters;

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 !

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 empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbied with his blood;

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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 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: 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 steel, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul-
verin.

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-upon them with the lance !
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite 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;

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