| 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, 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 went 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 turn’d the chance of war! | |
| Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. | 10 |
|
| 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; | 15 |
| And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; | |
| And, as we look’d 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 |
|
| 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 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 smil’d on us, as roll’d 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 I saw 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 |
|
| 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 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—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 blaz’d the helmet of Navarre. | 40 |
|
| Now, God be prais’d, the day is ours: Mayenne hath turn’d 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, | 45 |
| Remember Saint Bartholomew! was pass’d from man to man. | |
| But out spake gentle Henry—“No French-man 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? | 50 |
|
| Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; | |
| And many a lordly banner God 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, | 55 |
| 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 God 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. | 60 |
|
| 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; | 65 |
| Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; | |
| For our God hath crush’d the tyrant, our God hath rais’d the slave, | |
| And mock’d 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! | 70 |
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