 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
59
BALAKLAVA
They gave the fatal order, Charge!
And so, the Light Brigade went down
Where bristling brows of cannon crown
The front of either marge.
And so, the Light Brigade went down
Where bristling brows of cannon crown
The front of either marge.
Traced all in fire we saw our way,
And the black goal of death beyond—
It was no moment to despond,
To question or to pray.
And the black goal of death beyond—
It was no moment to despond,
To question or to pray.
Firm in the saddle, stout of heart,
With plume and sabre waving high,
With gathering stride and onward cry,
The band was swift to start.
With plume and sabre waving high,
With gathering stride and onward cry,
The band was swift to start.
They took the field with solemn eye,
However wild the deed they knew,
However whoso bade, should rue,
Their business was, to die.
However wild the deed they knew,
However whoso bade, should rue,
Their business was, to die.
'T was the old gallant English blood,
And many a shadowy ancestor,
Guarding his sculptured arms afar,
That day in memory stood.
And many a shadowy ancestor,
Guarding his sculptured arms afar,
That day in memory stood.
60
At serried gallop on they press,
Swerveless as penciled lines of light,
And where a steed turns back in fright,
That steed is riderless.
Swerveless as penciled lines of light,
And where a steed turns back in fright,
That steed is riderless.
They charged in high, immortal ire!
The war-cloud swallowed them, the young,
The brave,—a handful widely flung,
But of heroic fire.
The war-cloud swallowed them, the young,
The brave,—a handful widely flung,
But of heroic fire.
They fell, unconquered, nor in vain.
No, by the sacrificial cost
Of faith and courage, never lost,
Theirs doth the day remain.
No, by the sacrificial cost
Of faith and courage, never lost,
Theirs doth the day remain.
Reft heart of love, contain thy wound!
Flash, eyes! though lips press close and pale!
Still, mourners! let us hear no wail
Above the trumpet's sound.
Flash, eyes! though lips press close and pale!
Still, mourners! let us hear no wail
Above the trumpet's sound.
Nor wait the sire to weep the son
That bore his fortune and his pride,
Nor shall the mother's wish divide
From these, her cherished one.
That bore his fortune and his pride,
Nor shall the mother's wish divide
From these, her cherished one.
But tearful England holds her breath,
Listening, uncomforted, their fame,
Who, in the greatness of her name,
Rode glorious unto death.
Listening, uncomforted, their fame,
Who, in the greatness of her name,
Rode glorious unto death.
| From Sunset Ridge | |