and thought

"The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!"

Then nearing "Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,

And tramples on the goodly shield to show

His loathing of our Order and the Queen.

My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil

loose their casques

I fain would know what manner of men they be."

And when the Squire had loosed them, 'Goodly!-look!

They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,

And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,

Dead for one heifer!"

Then the gentle Squire "I hold them happy, so they died for love:

And, Vivien, tho' ye beat me like your dog,

I too could die, as now I live, for thee."

"Live on, Sir Boy," she cried. "I

better prize

The living dog than the dead lion: away!

I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead."

Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak,

And bounding forward "Leave them to the wolves."

But when their foreheads felt the

Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why

Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?"

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,

All that had chanced, and Balan moan'd again.

"Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall:

This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded not.

And one said 'Eat in peace! a liar is he,

And hates thee for the tribute!' this good knight

Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,

And sought for Garlon at the castlegates,

Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.

I well believe this damsel, and the

Crimean eyes had seen;

And now like old-world inns that take

Some warrior for a sign

That therewithin a guest may make True cheer with honest wine Because you heard the lines I read Nor utter'd word of blame,

I dare without your leave to head

These rhymings with your name,
Who know you but as one of those
I fain would meet again,

Yet know you, as your England knows
That you and all your men
Were soldiers to her heart's desire,
When, in the vanish'd year,

You saw the league-long rampart-fire
Flare from Tel-el-Kebir

Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven,

And Wolseley overthrew

Arâbi, and the stars in heaven
Paled, and the glory grew.

THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA.

OCTOBER 25, 1854.

I.

THE charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade!

Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians,

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley and stay'd;

For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were riding by

When the points of the Russian lances

arose in the sky;

And he call'd "Left wheel into line! and they wheel'd and obey'd. Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew not why,

And he turn'd half round, and he bad his trumpeter sound

To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade

To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die— "Follow," and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill,

Follow'd the Heavy Brigade.

II.

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight! Thousands of horsemen had gather'd

there on the height, With a wing push'd out to the left, and a wing to the right, And who shall escape if they close? but he dash'd up alone Thro' the great gray slope of men, Sway'd his sabre, and held his own Like an Englishman there and then; All in a moment follow'd with force Three that were next in their fiery

course,

Wedged themselves in between horse and horse,

Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made

Four amid thousands! and up the hill,

up the hill,

Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.

III.

Fell like a cannonshot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash'd like a hurricane,

Broke thro' the mass from below,
Drove thro' the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys
Whirling their sabres in circles of
light!

And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for a while from the
fight,

And were only standing at gaze, When the dark-muffled Russian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the right,

And roll'd them around like a cloud,O mad for the charge and the battle

were we,

When our own good redcoats sank from sight,

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd,

"Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade!"

IV.

"Lost one and all" were the words
Mutter'd in our dismay;

But they rode like Victors and Lords
Thro' the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay.
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray
Ranged like a storm or stood like a
rock

In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger'd the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,

For our men gallopt up with a cheer

and a shout,

And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,

And over the brow and away.

V.

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made!

Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade!

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, And that bright hair the modern sun, Those eyes the blue to-day, You wrong me, passionate little friend. I would that wars should cease, I would the globe from end to end Might sow and reap in peace, And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, Or Trade re-frain the Powers From war with kindly links of gold,

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all My friends and brother souls, With all the peoples, great and small, That wheel between the poles. But since, our mortal shadow, Ill To waste this earth began Perchance from some abuse of Will In worlds before the man

wrong

For which her warriors bleed, It still were right to crown with song The warrior's noble deed A crown the Singer hopes may last, For so the deed endures; But Song will vanish in the Vast;

And that large phrase of yours
"A Star among the stars," my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,

Old Horace "I will strike "said he
"The stars with head sublime,"
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in Space and Time,
So drew perchance a happier lot

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. The fires that arch this dusky dotYon myriad-worlded way The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze, World-isles in lonely skies, Whole heavens within themselves,

amaze

Our brief humanities;