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. The air is cool, and it darkens, And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair; With gold is her garment glittering, With a golden comb she combs it, 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; 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- 'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime- At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 69 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! 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 Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 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, Was no more than his due who brought good news from ROBERT BROWNING. Ivry. [OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! N° 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, 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; 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; 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 The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, 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; |