« PreviousContinue »
Bright science through each field of space
Has urged her mist-dispelling car,
To weigh each wind, and count each star:
With all her soft and generous train,
And guard the labour of the plain :
The ministers of peace shall stand,
Around a parched and thirsty land;
Cluster'd on ocean’s sapphire breast;
In more than fable now?“the blest:"
First in éach art of peace and pow'r,
Mighty to rule the battle hour,
EARL OF CARLISLE.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Half a league onward!
Rode the six hundred !
Rode the six hundred;
Some one had blundered.
* In 1854.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Take the guns,” Nolan said:
Rode the six hundred.
Some one had blundered:
Rode the six hundred.
Volleyed and thundered:
Rode the six hundred.
All the world wondered ; Plunged in the battery smoke, With many a desperate stroke, The Russian line they broke, 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.
Left of six hundred.
All the world wondered.
Noble six hundred.-TENNYSON.
A TRUE SISTER OF MERCY.
Miss Nightingale is one of those whom God forms for great ends. You cannot hear her say a few sentences - no, not even look at her, without feeling that she is an extraordinary being. Simple, intellectual, sweet, full of love and benevolence, innocent-she is a fascinating and perfect woman. She is tall and pale. Her face is exceedingly lovely; but better than all, is the soul's glory that shines through every feature so exultíngly. Nothing can be sweeter than her smile. It is like a sunny day in summer; and more of holiness than is expressed in her countenance one does not often meet on a human face as one passes along the dusty highways of life. Through all her movements breathes that high intellectual calm which is God's own patent of nobility, and is the true, seal of the most glorious aristocracy—that of mind-of soul !
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low.
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp.
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
* Santa Filomena, St. Philomel, “St. Nightingale.”
And slow, as in a dream of bliss
The shadow as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
The vision came and went;
The light shone, and was spent.
That light its rays shall cast,
From portals of the past.
A noble type of good
The symbols that of yore
THE HIGHLANDERS AND HAVELOCK. It was sixteen hundred rank and file with native levies made, Two thousand men of horse and foot, true each as his good blade; And at their head rode Havelock, his fearless forehead bareHis warrior locks, worn thin and white, waving with every air. Well knew that noble General what gallant souls he led, Right well his stalwart Highlanders knew too that snowy head: And through the night, by that pale light, forward the columns strode Over the yawning nullah and along the deep sand road, Fording the rain-swelled river-wave, breasting the weary hill, One thought alone in every heart, one purpose working still : To reach betimes the battle, and their 'leagured brothers save, Or bring the villain slayers to their victims' bloody grave. And left and right the scouts come in, and tell of squadrons near, But check no forward footsteps, and raise no thought of fear, Till the shrill jungle-chicken's cry hailed the day's rosy sign, And the gray light of morning showed the grim rebel line. Out spoke our gallant leader, “ Look ! yonder goes the way Towhere ouro'erpressed brothers stand, and where the butchers slayAnd in our road the knaves stand thick ; .wherefore, as you may see, Our path lies through their ranks, and carved shall quickly be.” They only rested from the march a thirty minutes space, Then rose and met their swarming foes in the sun's brightning face ; And long before the dew was dry, or sounds of morning still, The rattle of the strife was done-the slaves flew o'er the hill.
Onward again-the good grey head foremost in fight and march, While the sun's blazing gold burned up, through heaven's cloudless
arch. No hoarse command, no need of hand, nor voice in all their way, To bid them close these dust-clad files, to keep their just array; The hope that bears their captain on, the rage that scorneth rest, Throbs in the soldier's honest heart, burns in the drummer's breast Lightens the load of lance and gun, the weight of ringing steel, Whose biting ball and sharp swift fall, the assassin soon shall feel. Now sinketh in the tall cane-brake, the long thin line of spears ; Now on the crest the vengeful gleam of bayonets appears ; Now from his lair in rock and cave, the opposing foe they thrust And pass, but leave along the rear the battle's blood and dust; By night, by day, without a stay, right onward rolled their bánd, Til under Cawn pore's wall they met the fierce lord of that land. Scant time of breath-life and black death hang on the passing hour; The thunder breaks less sullenly, when heavy storm-clouds lour, Than breaks on those dark traitorous files, the fury of the few Whose eager eyes behold at last the sought-for caitiff crew; Once only, as the dastard crowd their heavy cannon plied, And swept with hissing hail of grape the green hills level side, But once they paused,
and crouching down under that deadly rain, Waited with noble patience that mocked at grief and painWaited, till, waving the true steel, brave Havelock cried aloud, “Enough, boys; up! take out these guns and clear away this
crowd.” Then up they sprang, and high out rang the long, loud British cheer,The saddest sound on all the earth for the oppressor's ear; And with set feet at equal beat, and steel at equal slant, Like blood-hounds on the view halloo, all fanged and grim and
gaunt, Out Hew they then, on rushed they then-a crash !--and once again The Highlanders of Havelock held the red battle plain. Oh, good grey head! that ever led first in the chase and charge, With hand so true and valiant, and heart so sound and large Oh, faithful fighters for the right! what need to swell the page With tale of blast by noonday's sun, and blight hy plague's wild
rage! I tell you, easy dwellers here, who own unused hands, That nine times in the open field met they the rebel bandsThat nine times from the open fields they drove them howling far, Each time, alas! grown weaker, with the wear of constant war; I tell you, twice they stemmed the flow of Ganges at his swell, Thrice on the farther bank gave fight, captured the cannon! Well! God's ways are dark! The bravest men that ever worked his will, Thinned by the battle and the pest, but all unbroken still, Rest on their arms—soul weary all—but rest to rise anew, And free their prisoned countrymen; as they will surely do, If God see good to grace therewith, on this side of the grave, The Highlanders of Havelock-the bravest of the brave.