Alfred Noble

“Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd.Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'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 hellRode the six hundred.Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd.Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'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 themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame 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!””

“I envy not in any moodsThe captive void of noble rage,The linnet born within the cage,That never knew the summer woods:I envy not the beast that takesHis license in the field of time,Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,To whom a conscience never wakes;Nor, what may count itself as blest,The heart that never plighted trothBut stagnates in the weeds of sloth;Nor any want-begotten rest.I hold it true, whate’er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;‘Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.””

“You and I are old;Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks,The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deepMoans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the bathsOf all the western stars, until I die.””