THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, AT BALAKLAVA. HALF a league, half a league, All in the valley of Death, Into the valley of Death Rode the Six Hundred : Rode the Six Hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs but to do and die; THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Sabring the gunners there, Not the Six Hundred. Cannon to right of them, Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, Those that had fought so well Left of Six Hundred. When can their glory fade? Noble Six Hundred ! ALFRED TENNYSON. CRADLE SONG. WHAT is the little one thinking about? Unfathomed mystery! Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Where the Summers go: He need not laugh, for he'll find it so! Who can tell what a baby thinks? By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Into the light of day? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, CRADLE SONG. Barks that were launched on the other side, What does he think of his mother's eyes? Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, Though she murmur the words Words she has learned to murmur well? I can see the shadow creep e! JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. |