Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,

Perchance, to dream you still beside me,
My fancy fled to the South again.


COME, when no graver cares employ,
Godfather, come and see your boy :

Your presence will be sun in winter,
Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,

Should eighty thousand college-councils
Thunder“ Anathema,” friend, at you;
Should all our churchmen foam in spite
At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;
Where, far from noise and smoke of town,
I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down.

You'll have no scandal while you dine,
But honest talk and wholesome wine,

And only hear the magpie gossip
Garrulous under a roof of pine :

For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter, stand;

And further on, the hoary Channel
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ;

Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro’ zones of light and shadow
Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin ;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances;
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters,
Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

How gain in life, as life advances,
Valor and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;

Nor pay but one, but come for many,
Many and many a happy year.

January, 1854.


O well for him whose will is strong!
He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.

But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,
Or seeming-genial venial fault,
Recurring and suggesting still !
He seems as one whose footsteps halt,
Toiling in immeasurable sand,
And o'er a weary sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault,
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,
The city sparkles like a grain of salt.



Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
“ Forward, the Light Brigade !
“ Charge for the guns !” he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“ Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho’ the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd :
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
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.
Honor the charge they made !
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !



AND Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little

Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks

like a man. And Willy's wife has written : she never was overNever the wife for Willy: he wouldn't take my



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