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Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd 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.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere;

You pine among your halls and towers;
The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate,

Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came thro' 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 ?
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light brigade!

Noble six hundred.

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.


We were two daughters of one race;
She was the fairest in the face;

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell, Therefore revenge became me well.

O, the Earl was fair to see!

“Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one 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. Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

She died; she went to burning flame;
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait;

O, the Earl was fair to see!

I made a feast; I bade him come;
I won his love, I brought him home.

The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
And after supper, on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head.

O, the Earl was fair to see!

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We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move;
The sun flies forward to his brother sun;
The dark earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse;
And human things returning on themselves
Move onward, leading up the golden year.

- The Golden Year.

NATURE. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers; You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along; The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seemed no room for sense of wrong.

- The Two Voices.


Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly long'd for death.

I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition
Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink,
The more you thirst; yea, drink too much, as men
Have done on rafts of wrecks-it drives you mad.

- The Cup.
Then what use in passions ?
To warm the cold bounds of our dying life
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy,
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us
From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes
Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well.

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers;
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

- Merlin and Vivien.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

-In Memoriam.

Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.

- Ibid.
Hold thou the good; define it well;

For fear divine Philosophy

Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell.

- Ibid.

Life. Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour.


SPRING. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the

robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself

another crest; In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd

dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

-Locksley Hall.

KISS. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.


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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping

something new; That which they have done but earnest of the things

that they shall do; For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could

see; Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder

that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of

magic sails; Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt which
Honor feels.

In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness.


FLOWERS. Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow

flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.

- The Falcon.

BIRDS. “These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you

they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song ? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have?”

-The Gardener's Daughter.

He had never kindly heart,
Nor ever cared to better his own kind,
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it.


The sin
That neither God nor man can well forgive.

Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants;
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

- The Princess.

MARRIAGE. Woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse; could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow. The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music into noble words.

-Ibid. NIGHT. “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font; The fire-fly wakens."

- Ibid.

PEACE. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days

gone by, When the poor are hovel'd and hustled together,

each sex, like swine; When only the ledger lives, and when only not all

men lie; Peace in her vineyard-yes!—but a company forges the wine.

- Maud.


Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells-
Of that which came between, more sweet than each,
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves
That tremble round a nightingale; in sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
And vows where there was never need of vows.

And then began to bloat himself, and ooze
All over with the fat affectionate smile
That makes the widow lean.

-Sea Dreams.

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