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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 that 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,
Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!
Thrice your number lie asleep,

In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire,-
That tempestuous storm of fire,-
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,
Ever trod the field of fame,
Than the Knights of Balaklava,-
Honor to each hero's name!

Yet their country long shall mourn
For her rank so rashly shorn,—
So gallantly, but madly shorn

In that fierce and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge.

THE LAST BUCCANIER.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

O England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;

And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see

again

As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish Main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,

All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair

and free

To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel torture from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,

Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,

And the colibris* and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;

And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,

To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from

sea.

O sweet is was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,

A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,

With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar

Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore,

[blocks in formation]

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;

So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass be

side,

Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;

But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where;

One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there:

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,

To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

† canoe.

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