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In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach | Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound
of Fame

May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:

As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square ;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again,

Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet and plume and panoply.

Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practice to display
Their discipline on festal day.

The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but molders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are Down were the eagle-banners sent,

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Then down went helm and lance,

Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent;
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot, -a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE CHARGE AT WATERLOO.

ON came the whirlwind, like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast;
On came the whirlwind, steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew.

Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And, hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude,

MONTEREY.

WE were not many,
- we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if but he could

Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept,

Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay,

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O THE charge at Balaklava!

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 commandCame to Lucan's little band, Scarce six hundred men and horses Of those vast contending forces :

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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?

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Charge!" Trump and drum awoke ;
Onward the bondmen broke;
Bayonet and saber-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.
Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom!" their battle-cry,
"Freedom! or leave to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 't is heard,
Not a mere party shout;
They gave their spirits out,
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod

Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death;
Praying, alas ! in vain !—

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That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
O, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

OF THE WARRES IN IRELAND. FROM HARRINGTON'S EPIGRAMS, BOOK IV. 6.

I PRAISED the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it;
For I have proved it now and plainly see 't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.

At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;
Here milk is Nectar, water tasteth toothsome.

There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere,
Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.

There we complaine of one wan rosted chick;
Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick.

At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down,
We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down;
Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,
A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.
There if a child but cry, O what a spite!
Here we can brook three larums in one night.
There homely rooms must be perfumed with Roses;
Here match and powder ne're offend our noses.
There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets;
Here we stand fast against a showre of bullets.
Lo, then how greatly their opinions erre,
That think there is no great delight in warre;
But yet for this, sweet warre, Ile be thy debtor,
I shall forever love my home the better.
SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

O, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING!

O, THE sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing,
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song whose breath
May lead to death,

But never to retreating.
Then, if a cloud comes over
The brow of sire or lover,
Think 'tis the shade
By vict'ry made,
Whose wings right o'er us hover.
O, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing.

Yet 't is not helm or feather, -
For ask yon despot whether
His plumed bands

Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em, -
Adorn but man with freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

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