THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(ALFRED 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 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 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 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 shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through 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.

Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred !

By permission of Messrs Strahan & Co.

THE FROLICSOME DUKE; OR, THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE.

Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court,
One that pleases his fancy with frolicsome sport;
But amongst all the rest, here is one, I protest,

Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:

A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.

The duke said to his men, "William, Richard, and Ben,
Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then."
O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
To the palace, although he was poorly array'd.

Then they stript off his clothes, both his shirt, shoes, and hose,

And they put him to bed, there to take his repose.

Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over dirt,
They gave
him a holland one-sure no great hurt.
On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
They laid him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
In the dawn of the day, all admiring he lay,
To behold the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late in his rich bed of state,
Till at last knights and squires both upon him did wait;
And the bare-headed chamberlain then did declare
He desir'd to know what dress his highness would wear.
The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd,
And wonder'd how he to "his highness" was rais'd.

Though he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,

Which he straightway put on without longer dispute;
With a star on his side, which the tinker oft ey'd,
And it seem'd so to swell with no little pride,
That he said (to himself),

wife?

“Where's Joan, my sweet

Sure she never did see me so fine in her life."

From a snug hiding-place, the right duke's good grace
Observ'd his behaviour in every case.

To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,

Trumpets sounding before him-(thinks he, "This is great")—

Where an hour, or p'raps two, pleasant walks he did view,

With squires and commanders in scarlet and blue.

Fine dinners they drest for him and each guest,
And plac'd him at table above all the rest,

In a rich chair or bed, lin'd with fine crimson red,
With a rich golden canopy over his head.

As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet,
With the choicest of singing his joys to complete.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine—
Rich canary, with sherry or red superfine.

Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
Till at last he began both to tumble and roll

From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain they should strip him amain,
And restore him his old leather garments again :
'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
And they carried him whither they found him at first;
Then he slept all the night, as indeed he well might;
But when he did waken, his joys all took fright.

The night's glory to him so pleasant did seem,

That he thought he had had but a beautiful dream;

Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought

For a pardon, in fear he had set him at nought;

But his highness just said, "Thou'rt a jolly bold blade, Such a frolic before I think never was play'd.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
Which he gave for the sake of this frolicsome joke;
Ay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground.
"Thou shalt never," said he, "range the country around,
Crying, 'Old brass to mend!' for I'll be thy good friend,
And Joan, thy good wife, shall my duchess attend."

Then the tinker replied, "What! shall Joan, my sweet bride,

Be a lady, in chariots of pleasure to ride?

Shall we have gold and land ev'ry day at command ? Then a squire I shall be, you may well understand: And I thank your good grace for this very good place, Oh! I ne'er before was in so happy a case.'

THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

(CHARLES DICKENS.)

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived, and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winterberries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. "When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." These were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor, slight thing, the pressure of a finger would have crushed- -was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born-imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care-at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and the small tight hand folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile