The Poetical Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson

To those great men who fought, and kept it ours.

And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;

O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,

And save the one true seed of freedom sown

Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;

Truth-lover was our English Duke;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

VIII.

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Follow'd by the brave of other lands,

Betwixt a people and their ancient He, on whom from both her open

throne,

That sober freedom out of which there springs

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings;

For, saving that, ye help to save mankind

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,

And drill the raw world for the march of mind,

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.

But wink no more in slothful overtrust.

Remember him who led your hosts; He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;

His voice is silent in your council-hall For ever; and whatever tempests lour For ever silent; even if they broke In thunder, silent; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for

The path of duty be the way to glory:
And let the land whose hearts he
saved from shame

For many and many an age proclaim
At civic revel and pomp and game,
And when the long-illumined cities
flame,

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,
With honor, honor, honor, honor to
him,

Eternal honor to his name.

IX.

Feace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue

Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our

trust.

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:

The black earth yawns: the mortal
disappears;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
He is gone who seem'd so great.
Gone; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own

Far on in summers that we shall not Being here, and we believe him

see:

Peace, it is a day of pain

For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung:
O peace, it is a day of pain
For one, upon whose hand and heart
and brain

Once the weight and fate of Europe
hung.

Ours the pain, be his the gain!
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere;
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility

As befits a solemn fane:
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,

Uplifted high in heart and hope are

we,

Until we doubt not that for one so true

There must be other nobler work to
do

Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the
hill

And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll

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Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

IV.

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.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred !

ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING
OF THE
EXHIBITION.

INTERNATIONAL

UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet,

In this wide hall with earth's invention stored,

And praise the invisible universal Lord,

thine,

And, lo! the long laborious miles
Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles,
Rich in model and design;
Harvest-tool and husbandry,
Loom and wheel and enginery,
Secrets of the sullen mine,

Steel and gold, and corn and wine,
Fabric rough, or fairy-fine,
Sunny tokens of the Line,
Polar marvels, and a feast

Of wonder, out of West and East,
And shapes and hues of Art divine!
All of beauty, all of use,
That one fair planet can produce,

Brought from under every star,
Blown from over every main,
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain,
The works of peace with works of

Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers!

Flames, on the windy headland flare! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air!

Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire!
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and
higher

Melt into stars for the land's desire!
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice,
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the
strand,

Roar as the sea when he welcomes the

land,

And welcome her, welcome the land's desire,

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