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What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
What! silent still? Then art thou dead!

-Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee,—and thus—to die.”
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom, -dead.



O THE charge at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge !
Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks, Poured their dread destructive volumes

On the French and English ranks,

On the gallant allied ranks !
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command-
Needless, heedless, rash command-
Came to Lucan's little band, -
Scarce six hundred men and horses

Of those vast contending forces :-
“ England 's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava !”

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody margel

Far away the Russian Eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles,

Dense and countless, round them yell!

Thundering cannon, deadly inortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies !
And beside them, lol the Lion!

With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards !—shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?
No, by Heavens! at that command
Sudden, rash, but stern command-
Charges Lucan's little band !

Brave Six Hundred! lol they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play, -
Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally,
Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli, -

Down that gorge they swept away!
Down the new Thermopylæ,
Flashing swords and helmets see!
Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws,
Heedless of their deadly power,

Press they without fear or pause,

To the very cannon's jaws! Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland

At the field of Roncesvalles,

Dashes down the fatal valley,
Dashes on the bolt of death,
Shouting with his latest breath,
Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver
Charge the pass at Balaklava!”

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!


Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend the little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,

Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,

Now but lifeless clods of clay,–

Now but bleeding clods of clay!
Never since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus!
Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass, —
Till, like brave Leonidas,

They storm the deadly pass !
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,
In that wild shot-rended valley,-
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,
Awful pass at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,

O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!
Thrice your number lie asleep,
In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire,-
That tempestuous storm of fire, -
But no soldiers firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame, Then the Knights of Balaklava,

Honor to each hero's name!

Yet their country long shall mourn
For her ranks so rashly shorn, -
So gallantly, but madly shorn

In that fierce and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge.


The Pauper's Drive.

THERE s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:

Rattle his bones over the stones !
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none
He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone-
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:

Rattle his bones over the stones !
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din !
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!

Rattle his bones over the stones!
He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.

Rattle his bones over the stones !
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !

And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low,
You ’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!

Rattle his bones over the stones!
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.

Bear soft his bones over the stones !
Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns !


Florence Wane.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,

Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream and early

Hath come again ;
I renew in my fond vision

My heart's dear pain,
My hopes and thy derision,

Florence Vane!

The ruin, lone and hoary,

The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told,
That spot, the hues elysian

Of sky and plain
I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane!

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

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