It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a dead-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:

So peace instead of death let us bring;

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our King."

186

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Then Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day:
While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true.
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

T. Campbell.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(OCT. 25TH 1854.)

I.

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.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

188

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:
Plung'd in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not-
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.

Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

A. Tennyson.

BARBARA FRITCHIE.

(AMERICAN CIVIL WAR; 1861-5.)

UP from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear from the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep;
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall, Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town,

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their silver bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead;