"I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory!"

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out.

But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory!

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died.

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory!

"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

_The Armada: A Fragment_

Attend, all ye who list to hear our n.o.ble 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 G.o.d'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 Edgec.u.mbe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; And with loose rein and b.l.o.o.d.y spur rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums: The yeoman round the market cross make clear an ample s.p.a.ce; For there behooves him to set up the standard of Her Grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells.

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down.

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield.

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious _Semper Eadem_, the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's ma.s.sy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;

For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head.

Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range those twinkling points of fire.

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves: O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent: Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light; Till broad and fierce the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent: Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULEY.

_Ivry_

A Song of the Huguenots.

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, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Roch.e.l.le, our own Roch.e.l.le, 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.

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 looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's h.o.a.ry hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living G.o.d, 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, "G.o.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 p.r.i.c.king fast across Saint Andre'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 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, G.o.d 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 St. Bartholomew!" was pa.s.sed 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!

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner G.o.d gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-- Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know How G.o.d hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry 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 ma.s.s for thy poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant n.o.bles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our G.o.d hath crushed the tyrant, our G.o.d hath raised the slave, And mocked 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!

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

_On the Loss of the Royal George_