88. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.-Robert Lowell. P., O. and A., all kinds of force. Med. Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! Low. Med. High. Med. Low. Med. We knew that it was the last: To yield to that foe was worse than death, There was one of us, a corporal's wife, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, She slept like a child on her father's floor When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, I sank to sleep; and I had my dream Of an English village-lane High. And wall and garden; - but one wild scream Low. Med. 4. There Jessie Brown stood listening, All over her face, and she caught my hand High. "The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa? The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel; "God bless the bonny Hielanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; Med. O. And fell on her knees, and thanks to God A. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back; - they were there to die; They listened for life: the rattling fire Low 0. Were all; and the colonel shook his head, High. But Jessie said, “The slogan's done; Low. Med. Low. Med. The Campbells are comin'! It's nae a dream; We heard the roar and the rattle afar, It was not long ere it made its way,- High. It was the pipes of the Highlanders! A. And now they played Auld Lang Syne; And they wept, and shook one another's hands, And every one knelt down where he stood Med. O. That happy time, when we welcomed them, And the general gave her his hand, and cheers And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed, 89. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.-Alfred Tennysçı Explosive O., medium pitch, poetic monotone. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, Rode the six hundred. "Charge," was the captain's cry; Theirs not to reason why, Theirs not to make reply, Theirs but to do and die: Cannon to right 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, Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Cannon to right of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; They that had fought so well When can their glory fade? Noble six hundred! 90. THE BUGLE SONG.-Alfred Tennyson. Effusive P. and O., medium and high pitch. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark! Oh, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar, Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky, Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 91. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.-Alexander Pope. Explosive O. Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, Oh, quit this mortal frame! Hark! they whisper; angels say What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, (AO) The world recedes,- it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? 92. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.-Mrs. C. F. Alexander. Idem, low pitch. By Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave, But no man dug that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth; And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun, |