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THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE,

AT BALAKLAVA.

HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death,
Rode the Six Hundred.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the Six Hundred :
For up came an order which
Some one had blundered.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Take the guns!" Nolan said;
Into the valley of Death,

Rode the Six Hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
No man was there 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.

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THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery smoke,
With many a desperate stroke
The Russian line they broke ;
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,

Those 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?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred !

ALFRED TENNYSON.

CRADLE SONG.

WHAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt:
Unwritten history!

Unfathomed mystery!

Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks,

As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know

Where the Summers go:

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the manikin feels his way

Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,

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,
Specked with the barks of little souls:

CRADLE SONG.

Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide!

What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle-roof, that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,

Cup of his life and couch of his rest?

What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand, and buries his face

Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell,
With a tenderness she can never tell,

Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds,

Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!

I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! He's hushed in sweet repose

e!

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

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