Leaped up to his lips,-when low, murmured

VOWS

Were pledged to be ever unbroken;

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,— The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good by!" And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night—
No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT

BRIGADE.

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 for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier 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,
Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,

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,
Sabring 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,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came through 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?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

THE DEATH RIDE.

A Poem by an American Youth That Preceded Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade."

-From the New York Times Saturday Review of Books.

On o'er the rocky ground,

Cannon on all sides round
Belching forth death and wound.
Madly they rode!

On! like a Demon-blast,

Thundering and fierce and fast,

Fear to the winds they cast,
Needing no goad!

On! through the rocky dell! On! through the cannon's hell! On! though by heaps they fell, Dying and dead!

On with a whirlwind's leap! Down on the Russ they sweep! Madly their swords they steep Where the foe bled!

On without stop or stay,
Cleaving their bloody way
Through that immense array,
Through to the rear!

"Well done, my gallant men!
Halt and return again—
On! and charge boldly then,
Who feels a fear?"

Back! through the serried rank Closing around their flankDeeply their red blades drank Blood shed anew!

Back! through that iron hail! Back! through that hollow vale!