But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
FASTer
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. wer
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon : A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy :
You hardly could suspect
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through),
You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon !
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes :
"You're wounded!" " Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; our place; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique Of the news which alone could save Aix from right, her fate, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse with. out peer,
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS;* OR, THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA.
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next
["Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind day they were brought before the authorities and ordered to per form Kotou. The Seiks obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declared he would not prostrate himself before any Chinainan alive, and was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown
upon a dunghill.” — China Correspondent of the London Times. Į LAST night, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone,
A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame.
The "Buffs" are the East Kent regiment.
Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries - Willie, mark! Where he burics those who died Fighting fighting at his side —
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep; God will help us, O my boy! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy ; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes-child, say that prayer Once again, a different one,
Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River."
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
O THE charge at Balaklava! O that rash and fatal charge! Never was a fiercer, braver, Than that charge at Balaklava, On the battle's bloody marge! All the day the Russian columns,
Fortress huge, and blazing banks, Poured their dread destructive volumes On the French and English ranks, On the gallant allied ranks ! Earth and sky seemed rent asunder By the loud incessant thunder! When a strange but stern command Needless, heedless, rash command Came to Lucan's little band, Scarce six hundred men and horses Of those vast contending forces : "England's lost unless you save her! Charge the pass at Balaklava!"
O that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge!
Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopyla, Flashing swords and helmets see! Underneath the iron shower,
To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power,
Press they without fear or pause, To the very cannon's jaws! Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland
At the field of Roncesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley, Dashes on the bolt of death, Shouting with his latest breath, "Charge, then, gallants! do not waver, Charge the pass at Balaklava!"
O that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge!
Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Rend that little band asunder, Steed and rider wildly screaming,
Screaming wildly, sink away; Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, Now but lifeless clods of clay, Now but bleeding clods of clay ! Never, since the days of Jesus, Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred. Presses onward, onward, onward,
Till they storm the bloody pass, Till, like brave Leonidas, They storm the deadly pass, Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild shot-rended valley, Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, Awful pass at Balaklava!
O that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge!
For now Russia's rallied forces, Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, Trampling o'er the reeking corses,
Drive the thinned assailants back, Drive the feeble remnant back, O'er their late heroic track! Vain, alas! now rent and sundered, Yain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!
Thrice your number lie asleep, In that valley dark and deep.
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