Golden Numbers Part 70

Written when the News Arrived, September, 1782.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native sh.o.r.e!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er, And he and his eight hundred Must plough the waves no more.

WILLIAM COWPER.

_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 sh.e.l.l, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of h.e.l.l 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 battery 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 sh.e.l.l, While horse and hero fell, Those that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of h.e.l.l, 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.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade!

n.o.ble six hundred!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_Bannockburn_

Robert Bruce's Address to his Army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lower; See approach proud Edward's power-- Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!

By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die!

ROBERT BURNS.

_The Night Before Waterloo_

There was a sound of revelry by night.

And Belgium's capital had gather'd 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 look'd 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!

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 Blush'd 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; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe!

They come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of l.u.s.ty 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 cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.