Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Lord Tennyson.

THE RETURN OF THE GUARDS

July 9, 1856 A.D.

Yes, they return-but who return?
The many or the few?

Clothed with a name, in vain the same,
Face after face is new.

We know how beats the drum to muster,
We heard the cheers of late,

As that red storm in haste to form,
Burst through each barrack-gate.

The first proud mass of English manhood, A very sea of life,

With strength untold, was eastward rolledHow ebbs it back from strife?

The steps that scaled the Heights of Alma Wake but faint echoes here;

The flags we sent come back, though rent For other hands to rear.

Through shouts, that hail the shattered banner, Home from proud onsets led,

Through the glad roar, which greets once more Each bronzed and bearded head;

Hushed voices, from the earth beneath us,

Thrill on the summer air,

And claim a part of England's heart,

For those who are not there.

Not only these have marched from battle
Into the realms of peace-

A home attained-a haven gained,
Where wars and tumults cease.

Whilst thick on Alma's blood-stained river

The war-smoke lingered still,

A long, low beat of unseen feet
Rose from her vine-clad hill;

By a swift change, to music, nobler
Than e'er was heard by man,

From those red banks, the gathered ranks
That other march began.

On, on through wild and wondrous regions
Echoed their iron tread,

Whilst voices old before them rolled—
"Make way for Alma's dead."

THE RETURN OF THE GUARDS

Like mighty winds before them ever,
Those ancient voices rolled;

Swept from their track, huge bars run back,
And giant gates unfold;

Till to the inmost home of heroes

They led that hero line,

Where with a flame no years can tame

The stars of honour shine.

As forward stept each fearless soldier,
So stately, firm, and tall,

Wide, wide outflung, grim plaudits rung
On through that endless hall.

Next, upon gloomy phantom chargers,

The self-devoted came,

Who rushed to die, without reply,
For duty, not for fame.

Then, from their place of ancient glory,
All sheathed in shining brass,

Three hundred men, of the Grecian glen,
Marched down to see them pass.

And the long-silent flutes of Sparta
Poured haughty welcome forth,

Stern hymns to crown, with just renown,
Her brethren of the North.

Yet louder at the solemn portal,

The trumpet floats and waits; And still more wide, in living pride, Fly back the golden gates.

And those from Inkerman swarm onwards,
Who made the dark fight good-
One man to nine, till their thin line
Lay where at first it stood.

But though cheered high by mailèd millions,
Their steps were faint and slow,

In each proud face the eye might trace
A sign of coming woe.

A coming woe which deepened ever,
As down that darkening road,

Our bravest tossed to plague and frost,
In streams of ruin flowed.

All through that dim despairing winter,
Too noble to complain,

Bands hunger-worn, in raiment torn,
Came, not by foemen slain.

And patient, from the sullen trenches
Crowds sunk, by toil and cold—
Then murmurs slow, like thunders low,
Wailed through the brave of old.