Henri Quatre: Or, the Days of the League ...

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Сторінка 54 - 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 rush'd, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Сторінка 54 - 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.
Сторінка 46 - The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour 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,
Сторінка 221 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Сторінка 46 - 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.
Сторінка 30 - 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 Henryof Navarre.
Сторінка 97 - I EAGERLY inhale the breeze From thee, sweet Provence, blowing; And all that's thine delights me so, Such pleasant thoughts bestowing, That if thy very name is named I listen joyously, And ask a hundred words for one — So sweet to hear of thee. And surely none can name a spot So sweet in memory biding, As 'twixt the Durance and the sea, Where the swift Rhone is gliding : There ever fresh delights abound, There, midst its people gay, I left my heart with one whose smile Would drive each grief away....
Сторінка 199 - Ah, noble prince, how oft haue I behelde Thee mounted on thy fierce and traumpling stede, Shining in armour bright before the tilt, And with thy mistresse sleue tied on thy helme.
Сторінка 97 - Who could iveara sadtlen'd heart? Fairer than the far-famed Helen, Lovelier than the flowrets gay, Snow-white teeth, and lips truth-telling. Heart as open as the day; Golden hair, and fresh bright roses — Heaven, who form'da thing so fair. Knows that never yet another * Lived, who can with her compare.
Сторінка 121 - Perce de mille dards, Quand la Gloire m'appelle A la suite de Mars! Cruelle departie, Malheureux jour! Que ne suis-je sans vie, Ou sans amour!

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