As Death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light
Died away!

Now joy, old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amid that joy and uproar,
Let us think of those that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou!

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Ex. 135.

Waterloo.

Campbell.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall,
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tones with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated. Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

[come!

Or whispering with white lips-The foe! They come! They

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,

And wild on high the 'Camerons' gathering' rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath that fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring that instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas !

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms-the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

Byron.

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 round 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 passed from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with

them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side.'

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

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazoned with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, when 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 heights

were won.

Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the freeAlma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea. Trench.

Ex. 137.

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!
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 batt'ry 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?
Oh! the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.

Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred !

Tennyson.

Ex. 138.

The Warden of the Cinque Ports.

A mist was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun,

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;

And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day,

To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon, through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel;

Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well.