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That England's honest censure went too far;

That our free press should cease to brawl,
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war.

It was our ancient privilege, my Lords,
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words.

We love not this French God, the child of Hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise;

But though we love kind Peace so well,

We dare not ev'n by silence sanction lies. It might be safe our censures to withdraw; And yet, my Lords, not well: there is a higher law.

194 THE THird of fEBRUARY, 1852.

As long as we remain, we must speak free,
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us break;
No little German state are we,

But the one voice in Europe: we must speak ; That if to-night our greatness were struck dead, There might be left some record of the things we said.

If you be fearful, then must we be bold.
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er.
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd

On her and us and ours for evermore.

What! have we fought for Freedom from our

prime,

At last to dodge and palter with a public crime?

Shall we fear him? our own we never fear'd.

From our first Charles by force we wrung our

claims.

Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd,

We flung the burthen of the second James.

I say, we never feared! and as for these,

We broke them on the land, we drove them on

the seas.

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. 195

And you, my Lords, you make the people muse
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed-
Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ?
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ?
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed,

Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous fraud !

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin,

Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts

If easy patrons of their kin

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard : For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word.

Tho' niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget We are not cotton-spinners all,

But some love England and her honour yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand,

And hold against the world this honour of the

land.

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Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

II.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why,

Their's but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

III.

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,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

IV.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air

Sabring the gunners there,

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