Imágenes de página


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,
Cannon in front of them volleyed and thundered;
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,
Cannon behind them volleyed and thundered ;
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.

ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel, writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said :-
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“ And is mine one ?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd-
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

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-
And those who warm repose beneath Italian clay
Below the mud of Nile—and 'neath Arabian sand,
Their burial place they quit, and soon to arms they stand.
And at midnight, from his grave, the Trumpeter arose;
And, mounted on his horse, a loud shrill blast he blows.
On airy coursers then, the Cavalry are seen;
Old squadrons erst renowned, gory and gashed, I woen.

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.

Mrs. Hemans.

"I HEAR thee speak of the Better Land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"-

“Not there, not there, my child !"
“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?”—

“Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it far away in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ?
Is it there, sweet mother, that Better Land ?" —

Not there, not there, my child !

: Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,–
Sorrow and Death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For, beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb

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!

the view;

is seen,

« AnteriorContinuar »