Broke through the mass from below,
Drove through the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys

Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,

Who were held for a while from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the right,
And rolled them around like a cloud,--

O mad for the charge and the battle were we,
When our own good redcoats sank from sight,
Like drops of blood in a dark grey sea,

And we turned to each other, whispering, all dismayed, 'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade!'.

'Lost one and all' were the words

Muttered in our dismay;

L

But they rode like Victors and Lords
Through the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay-
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray-

Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;

Till suddenly shock upon shock
Staggered the mass from without,

Drove it in wild disarray,

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,
And the foemen surged, and wavered and reeled
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of th
field,

And over the brow and away.

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made!

Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade!

XCVI

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

LAST night, among his fellow roughs,

He jested, quaffed, and swore;

A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown

And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.

Tennyson.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:

He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke, above his father's door,
In grey soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron frames;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring—
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

XCVII

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR

ELEVEN men of England

A breastwork charged in vain;
Eleven men of England

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,

Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way
Across the sand-waves of the desert sea,
Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,
Lord of their wild Truckee..

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent,
Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,

And, in that glorious error, calmly went

To death without a word.

The robber-chief mused deeply
Above those daring dead;

'Bring here,' at length he shouted,
'Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast for ever

Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken

The old rules of the Hill.

Before the Ghiznee tiger

Leapt forth to burn and slay;

Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray;
Before Secunder's lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honour
Were framed for fearless men.

Still, when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist-
Green for the brave, for heroes
ONE crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, Oh gallant Hillmen,

For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,

The green one or the red?'

'Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward,' each noble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,

Who dares deny the red?'

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.

Once more he cried, "The judgment,

Good friends, is wise and true,