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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

Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why
Their's 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;
Storm'd 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 turn'd 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.
When can their glory fade?.
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made !
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !


8. EVERY LITTLE HELPS. Does not each rain-drop help to form

The cool refreshing shower ? And every ray of light to warm

And beautify the flower ?



9. THE DYING BOY. I KNEW a boy whose infant feet had trod Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, And when the eighth came round, and call’d him out To gambol in the sun, he turn'd away, And sought his chamber to lie down and die. 'Twas night-he summoned his accustom'd friends, And on this wise bestow'd his last bequest :

“ Mother, I'm dying now,
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;

And on my brow
I feel the cold sweat stand ;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up; oh! tell me, is this death?

Mother! your hand.

“Here-lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus beneath my head, And say, sweet mother, say when I am dead,

Shall I be missed ?

“ Never beside your knee Shall I kneel down again at night to pray, Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay

You taught to me.

“Oh! at the time of prayer, When you look round and see a vacant seat, You will not wait then for my coming feet,

You'll miss me there!



“Father! I'm going home, To the good home you speak of, that blest land Where it is one bright summer always, and

Storms do not come.

“I must be happy then! From pain and death you say I shall be free, That sickness never enters there, and we

Shall meet again.

“ Brother! the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours We've stay'd to watch the budding things and flowers; .

Forget it not.

“Plant there some box or pine, Something that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine.

“ Sister! my young rose tree That all the spring has been my pleasant care, Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,

I give to thee.

And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away—my short life done ; But will you not bestow a single one

Upon my tomb?

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Vorning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the open windows freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring.
He breathed it not !--The laugh of passers by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers—he was dead !


10. PATIENCE. PATIENCE! why, 'tis the soul of peace: Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin' to heav'n; It makes men look like Gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit: The first true gentleman that ever breath’d.


11. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. MERRY sings the lark as it soareth wide and high,

Merry sings the robin on the flowering tree; Merry hums the bee as it flitteth swiftly by,

And, O! merry sings the child on its mother's knee. Brightly shine the stars in the blue and moon-lit sky,

Bright bloom the flowers o'er the meadow and the lea ; Bright the wings glisten of the swallows as they fly,

And, O! brightly smiles the child on its mother's knee. But bird and bee have flown, and clouds obscure the sky,

The flowers all bave faded that were so fair to see ; The days grow dark and drear as winter draweth nigh, And our child lies cold and dead on its mother's knee.


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