Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not—
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed 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?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!

The Night
Has a Thousand Eyes

FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON

(Born March 22, 1852; —)

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

"He was a friend to man, and he lived

in a house by the side of the road."-Homer.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran-

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—

The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road-
It's here the race of men go by.

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are
strong.

Wise, foolish-so am I;

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Used by special arrangement with the
publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

I Have a

Rendezvous with Death

ALAN SEEGER

(Born June 22, 1888; Died July 4, 1916)

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade
When Spring comes round with
rustling shade

And apple blossoms fill the air.

I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand.
And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath;
It may be I shall pass him, still,

I have a rendezvous with Death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,

When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

One of the greatest war poems written

'he world war

From "Poems by Alan Seeger" Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sone

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

By courtesy of Punch

Moonlight

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sound of music.
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven.
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins.

From "Merchant of Venice'