Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'er- Be copy now to men of grosser blood, whelm it, As fearfully, as doth a galled rock Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height!-On, on, you noblest English, And teach them how to war!-And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, And sheath'd their swords for lack of argu- Cry-God for Harry! England! and Saint Rich are their scarfs, their charges featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, Lest aught unseen should lurk, to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without his friendly steed Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe; Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd: away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: Now is thy time, to perish, or display On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimneytops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat Streams from his flank the crimson torrent The live-long day, with patient expectation, clear; He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; To see great Pompey pass the streets of And when you saw his chariot but appear, Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellow- Have you not made an universal shout, ings speak his woes. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, That Tyber trembled underneath her banks, I lost their long and heavy score, They chained us each to a column stone, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound—not full and free And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free, I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, It was at length the same to me. Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learned to love despair. And thus when they appeared at last, GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, ENSIGN EPPS. NSIGN Epps at the battle of Flanders E sowed a peed of glory and duty That flowers and flames in height and beauty, Ensign Epps was the color bearer- Scarce more than a lad he had been a sharer His comrades were slain or a scattered host, Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred; For up came an order which Some one had blundered. "Forward, the light brigade! Take the guns!" Nolan said: Into the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. "Forward the light brigade!" No man was there dismayedNot though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and dieInto the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Volleyed and thundered. Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke, With many a desp'rate stroke The Russian line they broke; Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, When can their glory fade? Noble six hundred! |