As Death withdrew his shades from the day; O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Now joy, old England, raise ! While the wine-cup shines in light; Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 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, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 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 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, And caught its tones with death's prophetic ear; [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 ! Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears! 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, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 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. 'Forward the Light Brigade!' Cannon to right of them, 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, 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, When can their glory fade? Honour the charge they made! 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, It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations Each answering each, with morning salutations, |