IV.-CAVALRY CHARGE AT BALAKLAVA. —Alfred Tennyson. HALF a league, half a league, half a league onward! All in the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred! "Forward the Light Brigade! Charge the guns!" Nolan said: Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred. "Forward the Light Brigade!"-Was there a man dismayed? Not though the Soldiers knew some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die! Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode, and Into the jaws of death-into the mouth of hell— Rode the Six Hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, flashed as they turned in air, Sabering the gunners there; charging an army, while all the world wondered; Plunged in the battery-smoke, right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabre-stroke, shattered and sundered: Then they rode back; but not-not the Six Hundred. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, Stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell: They that had fought so well, Came from the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them-left of Six Hundred! When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild Charge they made all the world wondered. Honour the Charge they made! honour the Light Brigade! Noble Six Hundred. V.—ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.-Leigh Hunt. ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd- VI.-SONG OF SARATOGA.-John G. Saxe. "PRAY, what do they do at the Springs ?" The question is easy to ask; But to answer it fully, my friends, were rather a serious task: And yet, in a bantering way, as the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a rhyme, to tell what they do at the Springs! Imprimis, all visitors drink the waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavour is none of the best, and the odour exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, with wholesome medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink-and that's what they do at the Springs! Then, with appetites keen as a knife, they hasten to breakfast or dine; (The latter precisely at three, the former from seven till nine). Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, when the eloquent dinnerbell rings! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat-and that's what they do at the Springs! Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, or loll in the shade of the trees, Where many a whisper is breathed, that never is heard by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands, regardless of conjugai rings; And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-and that's what they do at the Springs! The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, and music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour, and fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist-how closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-and that's what they do at the Springs! In short as it goes in the world-they eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; they sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance (with other remarkable things); They pray, and they play, and they PAY-and that's what they do at the Springs! VII.-THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW (Translation.)—Mery. AT midnight from his grave, the Drummer woke and rose; Both they in farthest North, stiff in the ice that lay— On airy coursers then, the Cavalry are seen; Old squadrons erst renowned, gory and gashed, I ween. Beneath the casques their blanched skulls smile grim; and proud their air, As in their iron hands, their long sharp swords they bear. A little hat he wears-a coat quite plain has he- Marshals and Generals round in circle formed appear; 'Tis thus, at midnight hour, the Grand Review, they say, Is, by dead Cæsar, held, in the Champs-Elysées. VIII.-THE BETTER LAND.-Mrs. Hemans. "I HEAR thee speak of the Better Land; "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, "Is it far away in some region old, "Eye nath not seen it, my gentle boy! IX. THE SHIPS OF ENGLAND.-Charles Swain. THE ships, the ships of England! how gallantly they sweep By town and city, fort and tower-defenders of the deep! We build no bastions 'gainst the foe, no mighty walls of stone; Our warlike castles breast the tide-the boundless sea 's their own. The ships, the ships of England! What British heart is cold To the honour of his native isle, to the deathless deeds of old? From quenched Armada's vaunted power to glorious Trafalgar, From Philip to Napoleon-when set Britannia's star? The ships, the ships of England! where'er the surges roar, Along the dark Atlantic-by the wild East Indian shoreWhere icebergs flash destruction down-or sultry breezes play, The flag of England floats alone, and triumphs on her way. Where sweeps the wind, or swells the wave, our vessels glad the view; The wondering savage marks their decks, and stays his swift canoe; The Greenlander forsakes his sledge to watch each distant sail Pass, like a spirit of the deep, beneath the moonlight pale. Oh, wives! that love your cottage-homes-oh, maids! that love the green, And youths! in whose firm fearless limbs a free-born grace is seen, Give honour to the noble ships, that fame and freedom lend; And bid your songs of gratitude from hill and vale ascend. What horrors of the midnight storm our reckless seamen know, Where thunders rattle overhead, and billows plunge below; Where howls the long ferocious blast, like some funereal strain, And fast and far the vessel drives along the dreaded main! |