with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;
While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips,—"The foe! they come!
they come!"
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover—heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
[Notes:Waterloo. Fought, 1815, between Napoleon on one side, and Wellington and Blucher (the Prussian General) on the other. Its result was the defeat of Napoleon, and his imprisonment by the Allies in St. Helena. The festivities held at Brussels, the headquarters of the British Army, on the eve of the battle, were rudely disturbed by the news that the action had already begun.
Ardennes. A district on the frontier of France, bordering on Belgium.
Ivry. The battle in which Henry IV., in the struggle for the crown of France, completely routed the forces of the Catholic League (1590).
My white plume shine. The white plume was the distinctive mark of the House of Bourbon.
Oriflamme, or Auriflamme (lit. Flame of Gold), originally the banner of the Abbey of St. Denis, afterwards appropriated by the crown of France. "Let the helmet of Navarre (Henry's own country) be to-day the Royal Standard of France."
Culverin. A piece of artillery of long range.
The fiery Duke (of Mayenne).
Pricking fast. Cf. "a gentle knight was pricking o'er the plain" (Spencer).
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. The allies of the League. Almayne or Almen, a district in the Netherlands.
IVRY
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 look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye:
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and
high,
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd 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 St. André'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 St. 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 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 spearmen's
souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be
bright:
Ho!
