Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BATTLE OF IVRY, by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BATTLE OF IVRY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Now glory to the lords of hosts, from whom all glories are!
Last Line: Navarre!
Alternate Author Name(s): Macaulay, 1st Baron
Variant Title(s): Henry Of Navarre;ivry; A Song Of The Huguenots
Subject(s): Henry Iv, King Of France (1553-1610); Huguenots; Ivry-la-battaille, France; War


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 corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O
pleasant land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city
of the waters,
Again let raptures light the eyes of all thy mourn-
ing daughters;
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in
our joys;
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;
An 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 has 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 you see my white plume shine amidst
the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Na-
varre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the min-
gled din,
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar-
ing culverin.
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint An-
dre'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
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 --" To Frenchmen 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?

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,
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 that
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.

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 pis-
toles,
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 St. 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!




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