Flashed all their sabres bare, flashed as they turned in air,

Sabreing 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; Stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell;

They that had fought so well

Came from the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them-left of Six Hundred !

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!-all the world. wondered.

Honour the Charge they made!-honour the Light Brigade!

Noble Six Hundred.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR.

THOMAS MOORE.

Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him. That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;

'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS.) 247

Thus, his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume,
Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS.)

(A Scene from '98.)

LADY WILDE.

'Tis midnight; falls the lamplight, dull and sickly, On a pale and anxious crowd,

Through the court and round the judges, thronging thickly,

With prayers they dare not speak aloud.

Two youths-two noble youths-stand prisoners at the bar;

You can see them through the gloom;

In the pride of life and manhood's beauty there they

are,

Awaiting their death-doom!

All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,
Some, sobbing, turn away;

And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,
So noble and so loved were they!

Their hands are lock'd together, those young brothers, As before the judge they stand;

They feel not the deep grief that moves the others, For they die for Fatherland!

They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens

On each proud high brow;

For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens
Around them, even now.

They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger;

Was that treason ?-Let them die!

But their blood will cry to heaven-the Avenger
Yet will hearken from on high!

Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human, The base informer bends;

Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men, While he clasp'd their hands as friends.

Ay! could fondle the young children of his victim, Break bread with his young wife,

At the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum Sold the husband's and the father's life!

There is silence in the midnight-eyes are keeping Troubled watch till forth the jury come;

There is silence in the midnight-eyes are weeping"Guilty!" is the fatal, uttered doom.

For a moment, o'er the brothers' noble faces
Came a shadow, sad to see;

Then, silently they rose up in their places,
And embraced each other fervently.

Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow, The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene: Twice the judge essayed to speak the word, "To

morrow,

Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.

"To-morrow!"-Fain the elder would have spoken, Pray'd for respite, though it is not death he fears; But thoughts of home and wife his heart have broken, And his words are stopped by tears!

THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS.) 249

But the younger-oh, he spake out bold and clearly: "I have no ties of children or of wife;

Let me die, but spare the brother, who more dearly Is lov'd by me than life!"

Pale martyrs, ye may cease! your days are numbered!

Next noon your sun of life goes down! One day, between the sentence and the scaffold; One day, between the torture and the crown!—

A hymn of joy is rising from creation;

Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
For the brothers are led forth to die!

Ay, guard them with your cannon and your lances!
So of old came martyrs to the stake:

Ay! guard them!-See the people's flashing glances, For those noble two are dying for their sake!

Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever:
Ah! methinks had I been there

I'd have dared a thousand deaths, ere ever
The sword should touch their hair!

It falls!-there is a shriek of lamentation
From the weeping crowd around :—

They're stilled-the noblest hearts within the nation

The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground!...

Years have pass'd since that fatal scene of dying,
Yet, life-like, to this day,

In their coffins, still those sever'd heads are lying,
Kept by angels from decay.

Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features,
Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves,
To strive for our birthright, as God's creatures,
Or die, if we can but live as slaves!

ARIEL'S SONG.

W. SHAKSPEARE.

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry:

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough

MOONLIGHT.

W. SHAKSPEARE.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims:

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

EARLY SPRING.

W. WORDSWORTH.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.