Come, we’ll lay us down, my child;
    Poor the bed is,—­poor and hard;
  But thy father, far exiled,
    Sleeps upon the open sward,
  Dreaming of us two at home;
  Or, beneath the starry dome,
  Digs out trenches in the dark,
  Where he buries—­Willie, mark!—­
  Where he buries those who died
  Fighting—­fighting at his side—­
      By the Alma River.

  Willie, Willie, go to sleep;
    God will help us, O my boy! 
  He will make the dull hours creep
    Faster, and send news of joy;
  When I need not shrink to meet
  Those great placards in the street,
  That for weeks will ghastly stare
  In some eyes—­child, say that prayer
  Once again,—­a different one,—­
  Say, “O God!  Thy will be done
      By the Alma River.”

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

[October 25, 1854.]

  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 dismayed? 
  Not though the soldier knew
    Some one had blundered: 
  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
    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 as they turned in air,
  Sabring the gunners there,
  Charging an army, while
    All the world wondered: 
  Plunged in the battery-smoke,
  Right through the line they broke: 
  Cossack and Russian
  Reeled from the sabre-stroke,
    Shattered 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,
  While horse and hero fell,
  They that had fought so well
  Came through 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 wondered. 
  Honor the charge they made! 
  Honor the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.