ALF 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 Death

Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode 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,
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.

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, 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:
When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

VIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang
"Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's check
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars.

And Irish Norah's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie.”

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest-
The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

E 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 with us been 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 him 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, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many-we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

LAS! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still;
And in the marshes far below

I hear the bearded whippoorwill;

I scarce can see a yard ahead,

My ears are strained to catch each sound;

I hear the leaves about me shed,

And the spring's bubbling through the ground.

Along the beaten path I pace,

Where white rags mark my sentry's track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace

The foeman's form with bending back,

I think I see him crouching low:

I stop and list-I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near. With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthern notch, And turn guerrillas into stone;

And then, amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,

And think of other times than these.

"Halt! Who goes there?" my challenge cry,
It rings along the watchful line;
"Relief!" I hear a voice reply;
“Advance, and give the countersign!"
With bayonet at the charge I wait-
The corporal gives the mystic spell;
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make

When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Where'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain.

I still may have the countersign.