Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow
Glimmer away to the lonely deep,
We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood ;

should turn to dearer matters. Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

How gain in life, as life advances,
Valor and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has blossom’d, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;

but come for many Many and many a happy year.

January, 1854.


1. O WELL for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.

But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,
Or seeming-genial venial fault,
Recurring and suggesting still !
He seems as one whose footsteps halt,
Toiling in immeasurable sand,
And o'er a weary sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault,
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,
The city sparkles like a grain of salt.




Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
“ Forward, the Light Brigade !
“Charge for the guns !” he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred


« Forward, the Light Brigade !"
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

[blocks in formation]

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.

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 I




AND Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say,

little Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks

like a man. And Willy's wife has written : she never was over

wise, Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to

save, Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it

for one. Eh !-but he wouldn't hear me--and Willy, you

say, is gone.

his grave.


Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the

flock, Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like “ Here's a leg for a babe of a week !” says doctor;

and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes


a rock.


Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still

of his tongue ! I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went

so young; I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

Why do

look at me,



think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so

old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the

rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with

the best.

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