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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 !-
Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them,
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,
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,
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 ex
ceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, with wholesome medici
nal 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 break
fast or dine; (The latter precisely at three, the former from seven till nine). Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, when the eloquent dinner
bell 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; And beating loud the drum, forth on his round he goes. Stirred by his faithful arms, the drumsticks patly fall; He beats the loud retreat, reveillé, and roll-call. So grandly rolls that drum, so deep it echoes round, Old soldiers in their graves, to life start at the sound.
Both they in farthest North, stiff in the ice that lay-
Beneath the casques their blanchèd skulls smile grim; and
proud their air, As in their iron hands, their long sharp swords they bear. And at midnight, from his tomb, the Chief awoke, and rose, And, followed by his Staff, with slow steps on he goes. A little hat he wears—a coat quite plain has he A little sword for arms at his left side hanging free. O’er the vast plain, the moon a solemn lustre threw; The man with the little hat the troops goes to review. The ranks present their arms, deep roll the drums the while; Recovering then, the troops before the Chief defile. Marshals and Generals round in circle formed appear; The Chief, to the first, a word then whispers in his ear. The word goes down the ranks--resounds along the Seine; That word they give, is~"France !” the answer—" Saint
Hélène !" —'Tis thus, at midnight hour, the Grand Review, they say, Is, by dead Cæsar, held, in the Champs-Elysées.
VIII. -THE BETTER LAND.-
“Not there, not there, my child !"
“Not there, not there, my child!”
“Not there, not there, my child !
: Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
It is there, it is there, my child !"
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 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 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!