Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus !

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!
With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards!-shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by Heavens! at that command-
Sudden, rash, but stern command-
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play,— Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,—

Down that gorge they swept away!

Down the new Thermopyla,
Flashing swords and helmets see!

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 the 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,

Then the Knights of Balaklava,—
Honor to each hero's name!

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

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

ALEXANDER B. MEEK.

The Pauper's Drive.

THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot—
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Oh, where are the mourners?

Alas! there are none

He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone—
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;

To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns !
THOMAS NOEL.

Florence Vane.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision
My heart's dear pain,

My hopes and thy derision,
Florence Vane!

The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told,

That spot, the hues elysian
Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane!

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river
Without a main,

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane.

But fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under;
Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane!

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep,

May their bloom, in beauty vying,
Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane.

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE.

The Dule 's i' this Bonnet o' Mine.

THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine:
My ribbins 'll never be reet;
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,

For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet;
He met me i' th' lone t' other day

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his,

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between!