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“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 rush'd, 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 heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven

mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was pass'd 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 Sovereingn 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 crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave, And mock'd 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. King Henry of Navarre was distinguished for his disinterested and gallant conduct.

It was in his time that the fearful massacre of Saint Bartholomew took place, when Protestants of every rank and age were cruelly put to death in Paris, Lyons, Orleans, Rouen and more or less throughout the whole of France. This happened in the reign of Charles the Ninth of France, and it is supposed that throughout the Kingdom of France, 25,000 Protestants perished at the infernal command of Charles, and other Roman Catholics.

This wicked King died a most dreadful death, blood oozing from the pores of his skin ;-a just judgment for his horrible crimes ; he was only 23 years of age when he expired.

The brave and generous Henry of Navarre, headed the Hugenots, and shortly afterwards became King of France, under the title of

Henry 4th.


Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman-
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell ;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard ; say then I taught thee!
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals (1) of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(The image of his Maker) hope to win by't ?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not,
Let all the ends thou aimest at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truths; then if thou fallest, Cromwell,
Thou fallest a blessed martyr. Serve the king ;
And, pr’ythee, lead me in-
There take an inventory (2) of all I have;
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !

SHAKSPEARE. (1) Shoals-hollows. I (2) Inventory-list.

This quotation is from Shakspeares drama of Henry 8th ;you will immediately perceive who is the subject of it-Cardinal Wolsey, who lived in the reign of Henry 8th. This wonderful man was the son of a butcher, at Ipswich, and by his great abilities and perseverance reached to the highest pinnacle of human greatness. The king took a dislike to him because he objected to his marriage with Anna Boleyn. He is supposed to be addressing Cromwell, his young secretary, and the language is most touching and affecting,—the advice he gives him is admirable,--and I think no short quotation from Shakspeare's voluminous writings could give you a finer idea of the style and splendour of that great man's works.

Shakspeare was born at Sratford upon Avon, in Warwickshire, 1564, and died 1616.


Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
“Life is but an empty dream!”
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real-life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal, (1) “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destin'd end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us further that to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

(1) Goal-end

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac (2) of Life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle-

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant,

Let the dead Past bury its dead ;
Act-act in the living present,

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us,

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us,

Footsteps on the sands of Time :

Foot prints that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing, so
Learn to labour and to wait.

LONGFELLOW. (2) Bivouac-an army on guard. These heart and soul inspiring verses are written by a living American Poet, who has contributed greatly to advance the literature of his fine and prosperous country. Each line conveys to us the purest sentiment, and teaches us the highest philosophy. .

That each youthful mind who learns this elegant poem, may at different times apply it in their course through life, and show that however high or humble their position may be, they can make their lives sublime,' by practising virtue, truth, goodness and love is the highest hope and best wish of the Compiler of these few

Flowers of Poetry, mum

G. Pullen, Printer, Canterbury,

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