All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

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 !

NORTHERN FARMER

OLD STYLE

WHEER 'asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere aloän?

Noorse thourt nowt o' a noorse whoy, Doctor's abeän an' agoän:

Says that I moänt 'a naw moor aäle: but I beänt a fool :

Git ma my aäle, fur I beänt a-gawin' to breäk my rule.

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true :

Naw soort o' koind o’use to saäy the things that a do.

I've 'ed my point o' aäle ivry noight sin' I beän 'ere.

An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.

Parson's a beän loike woise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed.

"The amoighty's a taäkin o' you1 to 'issén, my friend," a said,

An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond :

I done my duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond.

Larn'd a ma' beä. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn.

But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne.

Thaw a knaws I hallus voäted wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staäte,

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin

the raäte.

An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy Sally wur deäd,

An' 'eärd 'um a bummin' awaäy loike a buzzard-clock 2 ower my 'eäd,

1 ou as in hour. 2 Cockchafer. a Bittern.

An' I niver knaw'd whot a meän'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saäy,

An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd away.

Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laäid it to meä.

Mowt a beän, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, sheä.

'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond;

I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond.

But Parson a cooms an' a goäs, an' a says it easy an' freeä,

"The almoighty 's a taäkin o' you to 'issén, my friend," says 'eä.

I weänt saäy men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aäste :

But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeäk, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waäste.

D' ya moind the waäste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then ;

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eärd 'um mysen;

Moäst loike a butter-bump, fur I 'eärd 'um about an' about,

But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raäv'd an' rembled 'um out.

ma aloän,

Meä, wi' haäte honderd haäcre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my oän.

Do godamoighty knaw what a's doin' a-taäkin’o’ meä ?

I beänt wonn as saws 'ere a beän an' yonder a peä;

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all

a' dear!

a' dear And I'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year.

A mowt 'a taäen owd Joänes, as 'ant not a 'aäpoth o' sense,

Or a mowt 'a taäen young Robins mended a fence :

a niver

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeäs ma a passin' boy,

Says to thessén, naw doubt, "what a man a beä sewer-loy!"

Fur they knaws what I beän to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All;

I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall.

Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite,

For whoa's to howd the lond ater meä thot muddles ma quoit ;

naw moor nor a floy;

Git ma my aäle I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy.

THE DAISY

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.

What Roman strength Turbia show'd
In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.

How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heav'd with a summer swell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue;
Where, here and there, on sandy beaches
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.

How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove,

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ;

it to Joänes,

Naw, nor a moänt to Robins

bles the stoäns.

--

a niver rem

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him.

Nor knew we well what pleas'd us most,

wi' 'is kittle o' steäm

Huzzin' an' maäzin' the blessed feälds wi' the Divil's oän teäm.

Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet,

But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abeär to see it.

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aäle ?

Doctor's a' toättler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the owd taäle;

But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast,

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen
A light amid its olives green;

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,

Where oleanders flush'd the bed
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head.

We lov'd that hall tho' white and cold,
Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people's awful princes,
The grave, severe Genovese of old.

At Florence too what golden hours,
In those long galleries, were ours;

What drives about the fresh Cascinè, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.

In bright vignettes, and each complete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet.

But when we cross'd the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain;

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles;
Porch-pillars on the lion resting,
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.

O Milan, O the chanting quires,
The giant windows' blazon'd fires,

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory!

A mount of marble, a hundred spires!

I climb'd the roofs at break of day;
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.

I stood among the silent statues,
And statued pinnacles, mute as they.

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys And snowy dells in a golden air.

Remember how we came at last
To Como; shower and storm and blast

Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded; and how we past

From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day,

The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way,

Like ballad-burthen music, kept,
As on The Lariano crept

To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept;

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake
A cypress in the moonlight shake,

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agavè above the lake.

What more? we took our last adieu,
And up the snowy Splugen drew,

But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.

It told of England then to me,
And now it tells of Italy.

O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea;

So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold:

Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky lent me,

Still in the little book you And where you tenderly laid it by :

And I forgot the clouded Forth,

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,
The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,
Perchance, to dream you still beside me,
My fancy fled to the South again.

THE FLOWER ONCE in a golden hour

I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower,

The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went

Thro' my garden-bower, And muttering discontent Curs'd me and my flower. Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o'er the wall Stole the seed by night.

Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one

comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."

So to the barge they came. There those three Queens

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loos'd the shatter'd casque, and chaf'd his hands,

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,

And dropping bitter tears against a brow Strip'd with dark blood: for all his face was white

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing

east;