ALFRED KNOTT

BALAKLAVA.

THE LIGHT CAVALRY CHARGE.

To o'ercome yon dense mass surely hope there is none;

Yet the gauntlet of death they make ready to run;

There's a lifting of heart in each soul-hidden pray'r,

And then nought but the stern-purposed warriors are there,

While the firm compress'd lip and the bright glancing eye

Are an index of men who will conquer or die.

Oh! no blanching of cheek and no quailing of eye

Might ye note, as those horsemen rode gallantly by

With the speed of the whirlwind, with death on each crest,

As the eagle that swoops from its high mountain nest,

While the gleaming of sabre, and helmet, and plume.

Like a halo of hope, mark'd that pathway of doom.

Then no thought but of vict'ry and honour arose,

As they swept, like a hurricane, full on their foes;

With their lances low levell'd, their swords lifted high,

On they sped, as the aerolite falls from the sky;

And they smote as the thunderbolt smiteth the rock,

When the mountain is rent by the force of the shock.

See, the Russians count thousands; but hundreds they tell,

Yet they keep up the old British valour right well;

Still, with death in the rear, on the flanks, in the van,

Can there ever return from that conflict one man,

Who shall tell in Old England the glorious tale

Of the few that made thousands with terror turn pale?

Once across that dark valley of slaughter they've sped,

And their course may be traced by the dying and dead;

By the rifle and cannon their ranks have been torn;

But a remnant remains of the pride of that morn;

Yet again through that valley right onward they go,

In despite of the shell and the o'erwhelming foe.

With the courage of martyrs who fear not to die,

They retreat, but retreating all onsets defy,

And a terrible home-path before them they cleave,

As a tale for all ages behind them they leave,

Written deep in the blood of the hundreds of dead,

Where the Angel-Destroyer exulting doth tread.

Oh! riglit proudly, indeed, may our bosoms then swell;

We are kindred in blood to the heroes who fell;

And the mighty of heart that in triumph return'd,

Are the men over whom our affections have yearn'd;

And undying the glory, unfading the fame,

That for ever shall ding round each valiant one's name.