Stranger! however great,

With lowly rev’rence bow; There's one in that poor shedOne by that paltry bed

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! death doth keep his state,
Enter-no crowds attend-
Enter-no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands

A dying head.
No mingling voices sound-

An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed-again
That short deep gasp, and then-

The parting groan.
Oh! change-oh, wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars-
This moment there, so low,
So agonized-and now

Beyond the stars.
Oh! change-stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.

CAROLINE BOWLES. THE HUGUENOT'S BATTLE-HYMN.

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 plea

sant 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 Henry of Navarre.

0! 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 em

purpled 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 dressed, 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 may, For 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 Saint Andre's

plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we 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 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 Saint 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 Genevieve, 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 !

MACAULAY.

THE ARMADA.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise : I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient

days, When that great fleet, invincible, against her bore in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant-ship, full sail to Plymouth

bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's

isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a

mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in

chase. Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the

wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty

hall;

Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast ; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many

a post.'