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THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!

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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:
Their's not to make reply,-
Their's not to reason why,-
Their's 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;

Storm'd 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 turn'd 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?

Oh! the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.

Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !

TENNYSON.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

"Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land?

MARMION.

THE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!

And

green

for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE VICAR OF BRAY.

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A SOLDIER IN COLONEL
FULLER'S TROOP OF DRAGOONS IN THE REIGN OF GEORGE I.

IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never miss'd
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those that dare resist
Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law-that I'll maintain,
Until my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever king shall reign,
Still I'll be vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possess'd the crown,
And popery grew in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the declaration.

The Church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my constitution;

And I had been a Jesuit,

But for the Revolution.

And this is law-that I'll maintain,

Until my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever king shall reign,

Still I'll be vicar of Bray, sir.

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