HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death Rode the Six Hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns,"he said: Into the valley of DeathRode the Six Hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knewSome one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of DeathRode the Six Hundred.
Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them,Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well;Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell,Rode the Six Hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, whileAll the world wondered:
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 wellCame 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. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade,Noble Six Hundred!
- ALFRED TENNYSON
NOTES
① Some one had blundered.-The mistake made by Captain Nolan in explaining to Lord Lucan the order of Brigadier-General Airey is referred to in the preceding lesson.
② Cossack.-This name was originally given to the warlike inhabitants of the Ukraineor Little Russia. They are genuine Russians, their capital Kiev, on the Dnieper, having been for nearly three centuries the residence of the grand-dukes (880-1157 A. D.). From the seventeenth century till the Revolution of 1917 they enjoyed various privileges. They paid no taxes; but, instead, they were required to serve in time of war.
FRIENDS
FRIEND after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our final rest Living or dying, none were blest. Beyond the flight of time,Beyond this vale of death,There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath,Nor life"s affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire. There is a world above,Where parting is unknown; A long eternity of love, Formed for the good alone;And Faith beholds the dying here Translated to that glorious sphere.
- JAS. MONTGOMERY