Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all.
Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine !
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

The proof and echo of all human fame,
A people's voice, when they rejoice
At civic revel and pomp and game,
Attest their great commander's claim
With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,
Eternal honour to his name.

THE ALMA (SEPTEMBER 20, 1854)

BY ARCHBISHOP R. C. TRENCH

THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,

Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea:

Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known

Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.

In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,

And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine,

Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,

Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.

Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can proudly mourning, say—

When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away

He has pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hillside."

Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their herobeds repose,

Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;

And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done,

By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won!

Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free

Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.

BALACLAVA (OCTOBER 25, 1854)

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

66

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. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

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.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air,

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not-
Not the six hundred.

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.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !

INKERMAN (NOVEMBER 5, 1854)

BY GERALD MASSEY

'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease,

And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace.

At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark,

It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark!

So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away;

Their music floated on the air, and kissed us-1 -to betray.

Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud, Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its shroud;

For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see

How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.

O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk

Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!

While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hillside crept.

In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnagestir ? A creaking in the gloom like wheels ! feet trample— bullets whir

By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start

Thrill-like the cry of a wrongèd queen—to the red roots of the heart;

And long and loud the wild war drums with throbbing triumph roll

A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true!

No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew.

Majestic as a God defied, arose our little hostAll for the peak of peril pushed—each for the fieriest post!

Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling grim,

As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.

No sun! but none is needed,-men can feel their way to fight,

The lust of battle in their face-eyes filled with fiery light;

And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the

dark earth lay

The prophesying morning red of a great and glorious day.