He listened, the words of the count to hear,
And gazed on the danger that threatened near.

And boldly, in Heaven's name, into

The nearest fishing-boat sprang he;

Through the whirl-wind wide, and the dashing tide,
The preserver reaches them happily.

But, alas! the boat is too small, too small,
At once to receive and preserve them all!

And thrice he forced his little boat

Through whirl-wind, storm, and dashing wave; And thrice came he full happily,

Till there was no one left to save.

And hardly the last in safety lay,
When the last of the ruins rolled away.

Who is, who is the valiant man?

Say on, my noble song, say on!

The peasant, I know, staked his life on the throw,
But for the sake of gold 'twas done.

Had the count not promised the gold to him,
The peasant had risked neither life nor limb.

"Here," said the count, "my valiant friend, Here is thy guerdon, take the whole !" Say, was not this high-mindedness?

By Heaven! the count hath a noble soul!

But higher and holier, sooth to say,

Beat the peasant's heart in his kirtle gray.

"My life cannot be bought and sold:

Though poor, I'm not by want oppressed:
But the tollman old stands in need of thy gold;
He has lost whatever he possessed."
Thus cried he, with hearty, honest tone,
And, turning away, went forth alone.

High soundest thou, song of the valiant man,
Like clang of bells and organ-tone.

Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control,
Not gold rewards, but song alone.

Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can
Thus sing and praise the valiant man!

From the German of Bürger.

XLIV

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

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 cornfields green, and sunny vines,
Oh 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 still and stiff are they

Who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field
Hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry,
And 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 Caligni'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 armour 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 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,

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 rushed,
While, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed
The helmet of Navarre.

Now God be praised! the day is ours.
Mayenne has 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.