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Stormed at with shot and shell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
All the world wondered ; Plunged in the battery smoke, With many a desperate struke, The Russian line they broke, Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Volleyed and thundered :
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade ? 0, the wild charge they made !
All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !
THE BURIAL OF SIR John MOORE,
AT CORUNNA, 1503.
REV. CHARLES WOLFE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our Hero we buried.
We buried him darkly-at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought—as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-
And we far away on the billow !
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him, alone with his glory!
INTO a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one daySomebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for Somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
They were Somebody's pride, you know :
Somebody's hand had rested there ;
Was it a mother's, soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptised in the waves of light? God knows best; He has Somebody's love ;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above
Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him
Yearning to hold him again to their heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; Carve on the wooden slab at his head, -
Somebody's Darling slumbers here.”
TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone! Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves !
Our little life is but a gust,
The CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
HARK ! from the dim church tower,
The deep, slow Curfew's chime ! —
In England's olden time.
From the fields of his toil at night,
In his children's eyes make light.
Sternly and sadly heard,
As it quenched the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheered the board with the mirthful
Flung out from every fane,
With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the pilgrim then
In the wild deer's forest far !
Might guide him as a star.
With lone aspirings filled,
While the sounds of earth were stilled !
And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
In pain and sleepless dread!