I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, And half the agony of such a death It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, All the livelong day, and the night beside, I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, The queen has lands and gold, mother, While you are forced to your empty breast A babe that is dying of want, mother, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die? There is many a brave heart, here, mother, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Come nearer to my side, mother, My father when he died; VII.-REBUKE TO THE NEAPOLITANS. THOMAS MOORE. In 1820, the people of Naples revolted against King Ferdinand, who had been imposed upon them by the Austrians. But in 1821, an Austrian army marched into Naples with little opposition. In the following stanzas, Thomas Moore, the poet, expresses his indignation at this want of courage. They should be read with much force, with the vanishing stress, and with impure quality of voice: Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore. May their fate be a mockword—may men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls! And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be, To think-as the damned haply think of the heaven They had once in their reach—that they might have been free. Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start! Shame! shame! that in such a proud moment of life, Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the That then-O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then You should falter,-should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death! It is strange !—it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er " If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out, For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, VIII. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. T. B. MACAULAY. During the latter part of the sixteenth century, France was rent by civil troubles. The king, Henry IV., called Henry of Navarre, was opposed by the Catholic nobles and many of the people. The king of Spain, and other foreign princes, united with the malcontents, and Henry found himself opposed by armies larger than his own. Among the battles fought was that at Ivry, a village not far from Paris. It was fought in 1590. The king was victorious; and the following poem, by Lord Macaulay, is the supposed song of triumph spoken by a soldier of the royal army. It should be read with clear ringing tones, and a rate of speed varying according to the sentiment. The pitch should be higher than medium: 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, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh ters. 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 ! 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! 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 ! The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed, 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, in 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 you 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 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 ! 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, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry then, "No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go." |