f their bodies. Behind this revolting breastwork they
defended themselves, until, one after another, they all fell beneath
the sabres and the bullets of the Protestants. In this dreadful
retreat more than two thousand were put to the sword, large numbers
were drowned, and many were taken captive.

In this day, so glorious to the Royalist cause, more than one half of
the army of the Leaguers were either slain or taken prisoners. Though
the Duke of Mayenne escaped, many of his best generals perished upon
the field of battle or were captured. It is reported that Henry
shouted to his victorious troops as they were cutting down the
fugitives, "Spare the French; they are our brethren."

This celebrated battle has often been the theme of the poet. But no
one has done the subject better justice than Mr. Macaulay in the
following spirited lines. They are intended to express the feelings of
a Huguenot soldier.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

"The king has come to marshal us, all in 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, 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, amid the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

"'Hurrah! the foes are coming! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almagne.
Now, by the lips of those we 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 on they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amid 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.
A