As light as if he felt no wouud;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay
It may not be?-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.
With fruitless labor, Clare bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"
"Avaunt thee, fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:
O, think on faith and bliss:
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And STANLEY! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand above his head
He took the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.
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 marge!
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 mortar, 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, lo! 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! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!
Down yon deep and skirted valley,
Where the crowded cannon playWhere the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli
Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopyla, 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 Noland, 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 that 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, Sabering Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild, shot-rended valleyDrenched with fire and blood, like lava, Awful pass at Balaklava!
O that rash and fatal charge,
On the 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,
Than 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 that battle's bloody marge.
-Alexander Beaufort Meek.
As light as if he felt no wouud;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay
It may not be?-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.
With fruitless labor, Clare bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"
"Avaunt thee, fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:
O, think on faith and bliss:
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And STANLEY! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand above his head
He took the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.
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 marge !
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 mortar, 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, lo! 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! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge !
Down yon deep and skirted valley,
Where the crowded cannon playWhere the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli
Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopyla, 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 Noland, 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 that 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,
Sabering 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 the 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,
Than 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 that battle's bloody marge.
-Alexander Beaufort Meek.
APTAIN GRAHAM, the men were
"C
66 CAP sayin'
Ye would want a drummer lad,
So I've brought my boy Sandie,
Tho' my heart is woful sad;
But nae bread is left to feed us,
And no siller to buy more,
For the gudeman sleeps forever,
Where the heather blossoms o'er.
"Sandie, make your manners quickly,
Play your blithest measure true—
Give us Flowers of Edinboro';
While yon fifer plays it too.
Captain, heard ye e'er a player
Strike in truer time than he?"
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray
Drummer of our corps shall be."
"I give ye thanks—but Captain, maybe Ye will hae a kindly care For the friendless, lonely laddie,
When the battle wark is sair:
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle,
And I've nothing else to love,
Nothing but the grave off yonder,
And the Father up above."
Then, her rough hand gently laying,
On the curl-encircled head,
She blessed her boy. The tent was silent,
And not another word was said;
For Captain Graham was sadly dreamiag
Of a benison, long ago,
Breathed above his head, then golden,
Bending now, and touched with snow.
"Good-bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother,
I'll come back some summer day;
Don't you fear-they don't shoot drummers
Ever. Do they, Captain Gra -?
One more kiss-watch for me, mother,
You will know 'tis surely me
Coming home-for you will hear me
Playing soft the reveille."
After battle. Moonbeams ghastly
Seemed to link in strange affright,
As the scudding clouds before them
Shadowed faces dead and white;
And the night-wind softly whispered,
When low moans its light wing bore-
Moans that ferried spirit over
Death's dark wave to yonder shore.
Wandering where a footstep careless Might go splashing down in blood, Or a helpless hand lie grasping Death and daisies from the sod
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