THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

IIe came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! For many a thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for." ·

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, Who put the French to rout;

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But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene."

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Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay.. nay.. my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke, Who such a fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin.

'Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

R. SOUTHEY.

I

THE ENGLISH BOY.

Look from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!

Thy country's fields around thee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have rolled since foeman's march
Passed o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind.

There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie
Which poured forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly

They stand, midst oak and yew,

Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed

The bow, in battle true;

And round their walls the good swords hang Whose faith knew no alloy,

And shields of knighthood, pure from stain. Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,

Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have showered their free heart's blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those gray fanes of thoughtful years,
Unfettered to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on-gaze farther, farther yet-
My gallant English boy!

Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,
The billow's pride and joy.

Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead;
That red-cross flag victoriously

Hath floated o'er their bed.

They perished--this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstained,
These knightly halls inviolate,
Those churches unprofaned.

And high and clear their memory's light
Along our shore is set,

And many an answering beacon-fire
Shall there be kindled yet.

Lift up thy heart, my English_boy!
And pray, like them to stand,
Should God so summon thee, to guard
The altars of the land.

F. D. HEMANS.

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 corn-fields 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 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 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 armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.