Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab'ring the gunners there,

Charging an army while
All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke:
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,
Shattered and sundered.
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,
They that had fought so well
Came through 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?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade!

Noble six hundred!

-Alfred Tennyson.

(Permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.)

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o're,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

In silence and in fear,

They shook the depths of the desert gloom,
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea,

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-

This was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band;

Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;

They have left unstained what there they found

Freedom to worship God.

-Felicia Hemans.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father," once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father, must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound—
The boy!-oh, where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea-

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part:

But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart!

-Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

THE EVE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!

But hark!-the heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And near, clearer, deadlier, than before!

Arm! arm! it is-it is the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispered with white lips, "The foe! They come! They come !"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate `e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider, and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

-Byron.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all-sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellowmen."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

-Leigh Hunt.