'Tis when they are glinted back,
From axe and armor, spear and jack,
That they promise future story,
Many a page of deathless glory:
Shields that are the foeman's terror,
Ever are the morning's mirror.

Arm, and up! the morning beam
Hath called the rustic to his team,

Hath called the falc'ner to the lake,

Hath called the huntsman to the brake.
The early student ponders o'er
The dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake! thy harvest fame;
Thy study conquest; war thy game.
Shield that should be a foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain,
More paltry still the sportsman's gain,
Vainest of all, the student's theme
Ends in some metaphysic dream;
Yet each is up, and each has toiled,
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled,
And each is eagerer in his aim,

Than he who barters life for fame.

Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror,

Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror!

THERE CAME FROM THE WARS ON A JET-BLACK STEED.

THERE came from the wars on a jet-black steed

A knight with a snowy plume:

He flew o'er the heath like a captive freed
From a dungeon's dreary gloom.

And gayly he rode to his lordly home,
But the towers were dark and dim,

And he heard no reply when he called for some
Who were dearer than life to him.

ANONYMOUS.

The gate which was hurled from its ancient place,
Lay mouldering on the bare ground,

And the knight rushed in, but saw not a trace
Of a friend, as he gazed around.

He flew to the grove where his mistress late
Had charmed him with love's sweet tone;
But 'twas desolate now, and the strings were mute,
And she he adored was gone.

The wreaths were all dead in Rosalie's bower,

And Rosalie's dove was lost;

And the winter's wind had withered each flower

On the myrtle she valued most.

But a cypress grew where the myrtle's bloom
Once scented the morning air;

And under its shade was a marble tomb,
And Rosalie's home was there!

THE NORMAN BATTLE-SONG.

THE exclamation, "Aux fils des Preux!" was used to encourage young knights to emulate the glories of their ancestors, and to do nothing unworthy the noble title given them. In many instances it was attended with the most animating consequences.-See Monstrelet's Chronicles.

Aux fils des preux! ye sons of fame!
Think of your fathers' ashes now;
Fight! for the honor of your name;
Fight! for your valiant sires laid low!

Aux fils des preux! red be your swords
With many a crimson battle-stain!
Fight on! ye noble knights and lords,
Stay not to count the warlike slain!

Aux fils des preux! from many a heart
The silent prayer now is breathing,

Who with fond hopes saw ye depart;

Fair hands the victor's crown are wreathing!

Aux fils des preux! On! soldiers on!

Your blades are keen, your courage strong!

Soon shall the conqueror's meed be won,
And triumph swell our battle-song!
"Aux fils des preux!"

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

LORD MACAULAY.

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,
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!

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 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,

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 Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldres and Almayne.

Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
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.

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 Saint 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!"
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! 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!

MAGYAR HUSSAR SONG.

GABRIEL DÖBRENTCI.

MOTHER, dost weep that thy boy's right hand

Hath taken a sword for his fatherland?

Mother, where should the brave one be

But in the ranks of bravery?

Mother, and was it not sad to leave

Mine own sweet maiden alone to grieve?

Maiden! where should the brave one be
But in the ranks of bravery?

Mother! if thou in death wert laid;

Maiden! if thou wert a treacherous maid;

O then it were well that the brave should be
In the front ranks of bravery!

Mother! the thought brings heavy tears,
And I look round on my youth's compeers;
They have their griefs and loves like me,
Touching the brave in their bravery.

Mother! my guardian! O be still!
Maiden let hope thy bosom fill;
King and country! how sweet to be
Battling for both in bravery!

Bravery! ay, and victory's hand

Shall wreath my cap with golden band;
And in the camp the shout shall be,
Oh! how he fought for libertyd

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

It has been, and yet shall be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That living we shall be victorious,

Or that dying our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not!