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 the dance, | |
| Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! | |
| And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, | 5 |
| 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 King Henry of Navarre! | 10 |
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| O, 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 Appenzell’s stout infantry, and Egmont’s Flemish spears. | |
| There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! | 15 |
| 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 Henry of Navarre. | 20 |
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| 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, | 25 |
| 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.” | 30 |
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| 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 ye love, fair gentlemen of France, | 35 |
| Charge for the golden lilies now—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. | 40 |
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| 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, | 45 |
| “Remember St. 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.” | |
| O, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, | |
| As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre! | 50 |
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| 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! | 55 |
| 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 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! | 60 |
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