Alfred Tennyson

That jewelled mass of millinery, That oiled and curled Assyrian Bull.

Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault? All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, Dead perfection, no more.

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,

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,

"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,

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

Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him, God accept him, Christ receive him!

Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story The path of duty was the way to glory. He that walks it, only thirsting

For this is England's greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true,

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low.

Bury the Great Duke With an empire's lamentation; Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation; Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare".

"If I come dressed like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare".

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay. Dropped her head in the …

"If I'm a beggar born," she said "I will speak out, for I dare not lie, Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.""Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all you can." She said, "Not …

"He does not love me for my birth Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight.

My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight