They in life’s outer circle sleep,
      As each in death stood sentry! 
    And like our England’s dead still keep
      Their watch for kin and country. 
    Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
      Comes Freedom’s dawn victorious,
    Such graves are courts to festal halls! 
      They banquet with the Glorious. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore,
      And bore our shield’s great burden,
    The nameless Heroes of the Poor,
      They all shall have their guerdon. 
    In silent eloquence, each life
      The Earth holds up to heaven,
    And Britain gives for child and wife
      As those brave hearts have given. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    The Spirits of our Fathers still
      Stand up in battle by us,
    And, in our need, on Alma hill,
      The Lord of Hosts was nigh us. 
    Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup,
      ’Tis an exultant story,
    How England’s Chosen Ones went up
      Red Alma’s hill to glory. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

BALACLAVA.

(October 25, 1854.)
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

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
Someone 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.