THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852

My Lords, we heard you speak you told us all That England's honest censure went too far; That our free press should cease to brawl,

Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words.

We love not this French God, the child of Hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise;

But though we love kind Peace so well,

We dare not ev'n by silence sanction lies.

It might be safe our censures to withdraw ; And yet, my Lords, not well: there is a higher law.

As long as we remain, we must speak free,
.Tho' all the storm of Europe on us break;
No little German state are we,

But the one voice in Europe: we must speak;

T. VI

241

R

That if to-night our greatness were struck dead, There might be left some record of the things we said.

If

you be fearful, then must we be bold. Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. Better the waste Atlantic roll'd

On her and us and ours for evermore.

What! have we fought for Freedom from our prime,

At last to dodge and palter with a public crime?

Shall we fear him? our own we never fear'd. From our first Charles by force we wrung our claims.

Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd,

We flung the burthen of the second James. I say, we never feared! and as for these,

We broke them on the land, we drove them on the seas.

And you, my Lords, you make the people muse
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed-
Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ?
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ?

O fall'n nobility, that, overawed,

Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this mon

strous fraud !

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin,
Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts-
If easy patrons of their kin

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard :

For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word.

Tho' niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget? We are not cotton-spinners all,

But some love England and her honour yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand, And hold against the world this honour of the land.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT

BRIGADE

I

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 Death
Rode the six hundred.

II

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die :
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.