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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
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

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,
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even
fought,

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,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the
slips,

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

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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,
But all afoot, the light-lim'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is trav-
ersed o'er,

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
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers
veer;

On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;

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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
Rome:

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,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores?

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I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother droop'd and died,
And I lay living by his side.

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together-yet apart,
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart;
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound—not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be:
It might be fancy-but to me
They never sounded like our own.

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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,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage-and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watched them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learned to dwell-
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:-even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh.

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,
Like a crimson lily with a heart of gold,
To-day when the wars of Ghent are old
And buried as deep as their dead com-
manders.

Ensign Epps was the color bearer-
No matter on which side, Philip or Earl;
Their cause was the spell-his deed was the
pearl.

Scarce more than a lad he had been a sharer
That day in the wildest work of the field,
He was wounded and spent and the fight was
lost,

His comrades were slain or a scattered host,
But stainless and scathless out of the strife
He had carried his colors safer than life.
By the river's brink, without a weapon or

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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,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

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,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,
Those that had fought so well
Came from 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?
Oh the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the light brigade,

Noble six hundred!

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