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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 s.h.i.+ning 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 around 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 pa.s.s'd 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 blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where 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's heights were won.
Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free-- Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.
AFTER ALMA,
(September 20, 1854.)
BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.
Our old War-banners on the wind Were waving merrily o'er them; The hope of half the world behind-- The sullen Foe before them!
They trod their march of battle, bold As death-devoted freemen; Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old, Or Rome's immortal Three Men.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow.
But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
With towering heart and lightsome feet They went to their high places; The fiery valour at white heat Was kindled in their faces!
Magnificent in battle-robe, And radiant, as from star-lands, That spirit shone which girds our globe With glory, as with garlands!
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
They saw the Angel Iris o'er Their deluge of grim fire; And with their life's last tide they bore The Ark of Freedom higher!
And grander 'tis i' the dash of death To ride on battle's billows, When Victory's kisses take the breath, Than sink on balmiest pillows.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
Brave hearts, with n.o.ble feelings flushed; In valour's ruddy riot But yesterday! how are ye hushed Beneath the smile of quiet!
For us they poured their blood like wine, From life's ripe-gathered cl.u.s.ters; And far through History's night shall s.h.i.+ne Their deeds with starriest l.u.s.tres.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
We laid them not in churchyard home, Beneath our darling daisies: Where to their grave-mounds Love might come, And sit and sing their praises.
But soothly sweet shall be their rest Where Victory's hands have crowned them To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed, And Heaven's arms around them.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod, On pillows dark and gory-- As brave a host as ever trod Old England's path to glory.
With head to home and face to sky, And feet the tyrant spurning, So grand they look, so proud they lie, We weep for glorious yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
They in life's outer circle sleep, As each in death stood sentry!
And like our England's dead still keep Their watch for kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls, Comes Freedom's dawn victorious, Such graves are courts to festal halls!
They banquet with the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore, And bore our s.h.i.+eld's great burden, The nameless Heroes of the Poor, They all shall have their guerdon.
In silent eloquence, each life The Earth holds up to heaven, And Britain gives for child and wife As those brave hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
The Spirits of our Fathers still Stand up in battle by us, And, in our need, on Alma hill, The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.
Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup, 'Tis an exultant story, How England's Chosen Ones went up Red Alma's hill to glory.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?
BALACLAVA.
(October 25, 1854.) _THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE_.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
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 Someone had blunder'd.
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 Volley'd and thunder'd; 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.
Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned 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 sh.e.l.l, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' 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?
O, the wild charge they made.
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade, n.o.ble six hundred!
