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THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.—

Tennyson.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death

Rode the Six Hundred.

"Charge!" was the captain's cry,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do and die :

Into the valley of death

Rode the Six Hundred.

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

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the Six Hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Fiercely the line they broke;
Strong was the sabre stroke:

Making an army reel

Shaken 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, They that had struck so well Rode through the jaws of death, Half a league back again, Up from the mouth of hell, All that was left of themLeft of Six Hundred.

Honour the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old-
How they rode onward.

PAST AND PRESENT.-Hood.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at morn ;
He never came a week too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away !

I remember, I remember,
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birthday:
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing.
My spirit flew in feathers,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow,

I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender spires,
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,—
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven,
Than when I was a boy.

HONEST POVERTY.—Burns.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that;

The coward-slave we pass

him by,

We dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray, that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

HOHENLINDEN.-Campbell.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing.
My spirit flew in feathers,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow,

I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high ;
I used to think their slender spires,
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,—
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven,
Than when I was a boy.

HONEST POVERTY.-Burns.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that;
The coward-slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

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