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THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

WITH bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle,

The cavalry come.

Sharp clank the steel scabbards,

The bridle-chains ring,

And foam from red nostrils

The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward

That quivers below,

Scarce held by the curb-bit

The fierce horses go!

And the grim-visaged colonel,

With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons

The order,-" Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre,

And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.

As rings the word, “Gallop!”.
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed

To a horse's hot flank :

And swift is their rush

As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader:
Like shaft from the bow

Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air:
A thousand dark horses

Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless
Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left !—
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver

Like wind-scattered reeds.

Vain-vain the red volley

That bursts from the square,— The random-shot bullets

Are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless,
Unerring as death,-
No sabre that's stainless
Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt
By that murderous steel
Will never yield case

For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken-
Hurrah! boys, they fly!
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses

And call in your men,—

The trumpet sounds "Rally
To colors" again.
Some saddles are empty,
Some comrades are slain,

And some noble horses

Lie stark on the plain;

But war's a chance game, boys,

And weeping is vain.

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

HARK! the rattling roll of the musketeers,
And the ruffled drums, and the rallying cheers,
And the rifles burn with a keen desire
Like the crackling whips of a hemlock fire,
And the singing shot and the shrieking shell
And the splintered fire of the shattered hell,
And the great white breaths of the cannon smoke
As the growling guns by batteries spoke;
And the ragged gaps in the walls of blue
Where the iron surge rolled heavily through,
That the Colonel builds with a breath again
As he cleaves the din with his “Close up, men!"
And the groan torn out from the blackened lips,
And the prayer doled slow with the crimsoned drips,
And the beaming look in the dying eye

As under the cloud the Stars go by,

"But his soul marched on!" the Captain said, For the Boy in Blue can never be dead!

And the troopers sit in their saddles all

Like statues carved in an ancient hall,

And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks,

And their spurs are close to the horses' flanks,
And the fingers work of the sabre hand-
Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand!
And the bugle sounds to the charge at last,
And away they plunge, and the front is passed!
And the jackets blue grow red as they ride,
And the scabbards too, that clank by their side,
And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod
As they gallop right on o'er the plashy red sod-
Right into the cloud all spectral and dim,
Right up to the guns black-throated and grim,
Right down on the hedges bordered with steel,
Right through the dense columns,-then "Right
about wheel!"

Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, Amen!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

THE CHARGE BY THE FORD.

EIGHTY and nine with their captain
Rode on the enemy's track,
Rode in the gray of the morning:
Nine of the ninety came back.

Slow rose the mist from the river,
Lighter each moment the way;
Careless and tearless and fearless
Galloped they on to the fray.
Singing in tune, how the scabbards
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang,
Clinked as the men rose in saddle,
Fell as they sank with a clang.

What is it moves by the river,
Jaded and weary and weak?
Gray-backs-a cross on their banner-
Yonder the foe whom they seek.

Silence! They see not, they hear not,
Tarrying there by the marge:
Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop!
Charge! like a hurricane, charge!

Ah! 'twas a man-trap infernal-
Fire like the deep pit of hell!
Volley on volley to meet them,
Mixed with the gray rebels' yell.

Ninety had ridden to battle,
Tracing the enemy's track,-
Ninety had ridden to battle,

Nine of the ninety came back.

Honor the name of the ninety;
Honor the heroes who came
Scathless from five hundred muskets,
Safe from the lead-bearing flame.

Eighty and one of the troopers

Lie on the field of the slain-
Lie on the red field of honor:
Honor the nine who remain !

Cold are the dead there, and gory,
There where their life-blood was spilt;
Back come the living, each sabre
Red from the point to the hilt.

Give them three cheers and a tiger!
Let the flags wave as they come!
Give them the blare of the trumpet!
Give them the roll of the drum !

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

CAVALRY SONG.

OUR good steeds snuff the evening air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there;
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle!
HALT!

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball:
Now, cling! clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome:
Through level lightnings gallop nearer !
One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home:
The guidons that we bear are dearer.
CHARGE!

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