A TRUE STORY.

The merry boats of Brixham Go out to search the seas; A stanch and st.u.r.dy fleet are they, Who love a swinging breeze; And before the woods of Devon, And the silver cliffs of Wales, You may see, when summer evenings fall, The light upon their sails.

But when the year grows darker, And gray winds hunt the foam, They go back to Little Brixham, And ply their toil at home.

And thus it chanced one winter's night, When a storm began to roar, That all the men were out at sea, And all the wives on sh.o.r.e.

Then as the wind grew fiercer, The women's cheeks grew white,-- It was fiercer in the twilight, And fiercest in the night.

The strong clouds set themselves like ice, Without a star to melt; The blackness of the darkness Was darkness to be felt.

The old men they were anxious, They dreaded what they knew; What do you think the women did?

Love taught them what to do!

Out spake a wife, "We've beds at home, We'll burn them for a light,-- Give us the men and the bare ground, We want no more to-night."

They took the grandame's blanket, Who shivered and bade them go; They took the baby's pillow, Who could not say them no; And they heaped a great fire on the pier, And knew not all the while If they were heaping a bonfire, Or only a funeral pile.

And fed with precious food, the flame Shone bravely on the black, Till a cry rang through the people, "A boat is coming back!"

Staggering dimly through the fog Come shapes of fear and doubt, But when the first prow strikes the pier, Cannot you hear them shout?

Then all along the breath of flame, Dark figures shrieked and ran, With "Child, here comes your father!"

Or, "Wife, is this your man?"

And faint feet touch the welcome sh.o.r.e, And wait a little while; And kisses drop from frozen lips, Too tired to speak or smile.

So, one by one, they struggled in All that the sea would spare; We will not reckon through our tears The names that were not there; But some went home without a bed, When all the tale was told, Who were too cold with sorrow To know the night was cold.

And this is what the men must do Who work in wind and foam; And this is what the women bear Who watch for them at home.

So when you see a Brixham boat Go out to face the gales, Think of the love that travels Like light upon her sails.

_Selected._

[Ill.u.s.tration: ALFRED TENNYSON.]

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

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: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismayed?

Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and sh.e.l.l, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of h.e.l.l Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabers bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sab'ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the saber 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 sh.e.l.l, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of h.e.l.l, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade, n.o.ble six hundred!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native sh.o.r.e!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plow the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plow the wave no more.

WILLIAM COWPER.

CALM ON THE LISTENING EAR OF NIGHT.