"WE sat mute on our chargers, a handful of men,

As the foe's broken columns swept on to the glen,

Like torn trees when the whirlwind comes:

Cloven helm and rent banner grew dim to our ken,

And faint was the throb of their drums.

"But, no longer pursued, where the gorge opens deep

They halt; with their guns they crowd level and steep:

Seems each volley some monster's breath,

Who shows cannon for teeth as he crouches to leap

From his ambushed cavern of death.

"Their foot throng the defile, they surge on the bank

Darts a forest of lances in front; o'er each flank

Peer the muskets, a grisly flock:

They have built their live tower up, rank upon rank,

And wait, fixed, for an army's shock.

"Far in front of our lines, a dot on the plain,

Mute and moveless we sat till his foam-flecked rein

At our side gallant Nolan drew.

'They still hold our guns, we must have them again,'

Was his message - ' Advance, pursue!'

"Pursue them! - What, charge with our hundreds the foe

Whose massed thousands await us in order below!

Yes, such were his words. To debate

The command was not ours; we had but to know

And, knowing, encounter our fate.

"We ride our last march - let each crest be borne high!

We raise our last cheer - let it startle the sky

And the land with one brave farewell;

For soon never more to our voice shall reply

Rock, hollow, fringed river, or dell.

"Let our trump ring its loudest; in closest array,

Hoof for hoof, let us ride; for the Chief who to-day

Reviews us - is Death the Victorious:

Let him look up to Fame, as we perish, and say,

'Enrol them, the fall'n are the glorious!'

"We spur to the gorge; from its channel of ire

Livid light bursts like surf, its spray leaps in fire;

As the spars of some vessel staunch,

Bold hearts crack and fall; we nor swerve nor retire,

But in the mid - tempest we launch.

"We cleave the smoke-billows, as wild waves the prow;

The flash of our sabres gleams straight like the glow

Which a ploughing keel doth break

From the grim seas around, with light on her bow,

And light in her surging wake.

"We dash full on their guns - through the flare and the roar

Stood the gunners bare-armed; now they stand there no more;

The war-throat waits dumb for the ball:

For those men pale and mazed to the chine we shore,

And their own cannon's smoke was their pall.

"That done, we're at bay; for the foe with a yell

Piles his legions around us. Their bayonets swell

Line on line; we are planted in steel:

'Good carbine! trusty blade! Each shot is a knell,

Each sword-sweep a fate; they reel!'

"One by one fall our men, each girt with his slain,

A death-star with belts! 'Charge! we break them!' - In vain

From the heights their batteries roar;

The fire-sluices burst; through that flood, in a rain

Of iron, we strike for the shore.

"Thunder answers to thunder, bolts darken the air,

To breathe is to die; their funeral glare

The lit hills on our brave ones rolled:

What of that? They had entered the lists with Despair,

And the lot which they met, they foretold.

"Comrade sinks heaped on comrade! A ghastly band

That fell tide, when it ebbs, shall leave on the strand:

Of the swimmers who stemmed it that day

A spent, shattered remnant we struggle to land

And wish we were even as they."

Oh, Britain, my country! Thy heart be the tomb

Of those who for thee rode fearless to doom,

The sure doom which they well fore-knew:

Though mad was the summons, they saw in the gloom

DUTY [u.c.?] beckon - and followed her through.

She told not of trophies, - of medal or star,

Or of Glory's sign-manual graved in a scar,

Or how England's coasts shall resound

When brothers at home greet their brothers from war,

As they leap upon English ground.

She told not of streets lined with life up to heaven,

One vast heart with one cry till the welkin is riven -

"Oh, welcome ye valiant and tried!"

She told not of soft arms that clasp the re-given;

She only said "Die!" - and they died.

Let Devotion henceforth Balaklava own

No less than Thermopylae, meet for her throne;

And thou Britain - thou mother bereft -

By thy grief for the sleepers who hear not thy moan,

Count the worth of the sons thou hast left.