"BALACLAVA"
The word is "Charge," the meaning "Death,"
Yet, welcome falls the sound
On every ear in the listening host,
Whose pennons flutter, zephyr-tossed,
That messenger around.
Among them Nolan reins a steed
Frost-white with gathered foam,
And pale and stern points to the foe,
In heavy mass, receding slow—
"Charge, comrades, charge them home!"
There rides one with fearless brow,
By time and sorrow scarred.
For him life knows no tale untold,
But empty names, love, hope, and gold,—
Cool player of Fate's last card!
Beside him, he whose golden youth
Is in its pride and bloom.
His thoughts are with a dear old home,
Its loved ones, and that other one,
And will she mourn his doom?
Another knows of a sweet fond face
That will fade into ashy pale
As she hears the tale of that day of tears;
And a prayer rises to Him who hears
The widow and orphan's wail.
"We die," passed through each warrior's heart,
"And vainly, but the care
Rests not with us; 'tis ours to show
The world, old England, and the foe,
What Englishmen can dare."
Then bridle-reins are gathered up,
And sabres blaze on high,
And as each charger bounds away
Doubts flee like ghosts at opening day,
And each man joys to die.
St. George! it is a glorious sight
A splendid page of war,
To mark yon gorgeous, matchless troop,
Like some bright falcon, wildly swoop
On the sullen prey before.
Captain Martinet (loquitur).
"Hurrah for the hearts of Englishmen,
And the thoroughbred's long stride,
As the vibrating, turf-tearing hoof-thunder rolled,
'Twas worth a year of one's life, all told,
To have seen our fellows ride!"
But what avails the sabre sweep?
There rolls the awful sound,
Telling through heart, and limb, and brain,
That the cannon mows its ghastly lane,
And corses strew the ground.
Ha! Nolan flings his arms apart,
And a death-cry rings in air;
And see, may Heaven its mercy yield!
His charger from a hopeless field
Doth a dead rider bear.
The gunners lie by their linstocks dead,
While deep on every brow,
In the bloody scroll of our island swords,
Is the tale of each horseman's dying words,
"Our memory is deathless now."
Staggering back goes a broken band,
With standards soiled and torn,
With gory saddles and reeling steeds,
And ranks that are swaying like surging reeds
On a wild autumn morn.
Despair has gazed on many a field
Won by our fearless race;
And well the night wind, sighing low,
Knows where, with breast broad to the foe,
Is the dead Briton's place.
But never living horsemen rode
So near the eternal marge,
As those who ran the tilt that day
With Death, and bore their lives away
From the Balaclava charge.