The other Tennyson poem


As mentioned by me in a comment on the film, Lord Tennyson wrote (after a protest letter) a second poem concerning THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. This poem can be found in THE COMPLETE POEMS AND PLAYS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON (New York: Modern Library - Modern Library Giant, 1938), p. 823 - 825.

October 25, 1954

Prologue

To General Hamley

Our birches yellowing and from each
The light leaf falling fast,
While squirrels from our fiery beech
Were bearing off the mast,
You came, and look'd and loved the view
Long-known and loved by me,
Green Sussex fading into blue
With one gray glimpse of sea;
And, gazing from this height alone,
We spoke of what had been
Most marvellous in the wars your own
Crimean eyes had seen;
And now -- lie old-world inns that take
Some warrior for a sign
That therewithin a guest may make
True cheer with honest wine --
Because you heard the lines I read
Nor utter'd word of blame,
I dare without your leave to head
These rhymings with your name,
Who know you but as one of those
I fain would meet again,
Yet know you, as your England knowns
That you and all your men
Were soldiers to her heart's desire,
When, in the vanish'd year,
You saw the league-long rampart-fire
Flare from Tel-el-Kebir
Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven,
And Wolsey overthrew
Arabi, and the stars in heaven
Paled, and the glory grew.

THE CHARGE

I

The charge of the gallant three hundred,
the Heavy Brigade!
Down the hill, down the hill,
thousands of Russians,
Thousands of horseman, drew to the
valley -- and stay'd;
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred
were riding by
When the points of the Russian lances
arose in the sky;
And he call'd,'Left wheel into line!'
and they wheel'd and obey'd.
Then he look'd at the host that had
halted he knew not why,
And he turn'd half round, and he bade
his trumpeter sound
To the charge, and he rode on ahead,
as he waved his blade
To the gallant three hundred whose
glory will never die --
'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill,
up the hill,
Follow'd the Heavy Brigade.

II

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge,
and the might of the fight!
Thousands of horsemen had gather'd
there on the height,
With a wing push'd out to the left, and
a wing to the right,
And who whall escape if they close?
but he dash'd up alone.
Thro' the great gray slope of men,
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own
Like an Englishman there and then.
All in a moment follow'd with force
Three that were next in their fiery
course,
Wedged themselves in between horse
and horse,
Fought for their lives in the narrow
gap they had made --
Four amid thousands! and up the hill,
up the hill,
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the
Heavy Brigade.

III

Fell like a cannon - shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash'd like a hurricane,
Broke thro' the mass below,
Drove thro' the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys
Whirling their sabres in circles of
light!
And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for a while from the
fight,
And were only standing at gaze,
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the
right,
And roll'd them around like a cloud --
O, mad for the charge and the battle
were we,
When our own good redcoats sank
from sight,
Light drops of blood in a dark-grey sea,
And we turn'd to each other, whispering,
all dismay'd,
'Lost are the gallant three hundred of
Scarlett's Brigade!'

IV

'Lost one and all' were the words
Mutter'd in our dismay;
But they rode like victos and lords
Thro' the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay --
Stuck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray --
Ranged like a storm or stood a
rock
In the wave of a stormy dayl
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger'd the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,
For our men gallopt up with a cheer
and a shout,
And the foeman surged, and waver;d
and reel'd
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out
of the field,
And over the brow ans away.

V

Glory to each and to all, and the
charge that they made!
Glory to all the three hundred, and all
the Brigade!

(Note - The 'three hundred' of the "Heavy Brigade' who made this famous charge were the Scots Greys and the 2d squadron of Inniskillens; the remainder of the 'Heavy Brigade' subsequently dashing up to their support.
The 'three' were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, Elliot, and the trumpeter, and Shegog the orderly, who had been close behind him.)

EPILOGUE

IRENE

Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.

POET

What way?

IRENE

You praise when you should
blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.

POET

Yet tho' this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,
I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old,
Or Trade re-frain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,
Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all
My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since our mortal shadow, Ill,
To waste this earth began --
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds befoe the man
Involving ours -- he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,
He needs must combat might with
might,
Or Might would rule alone;
And who loves war for war's own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take
His meed of fame in verse;
Nay -- tho' that realm were in the
wrong
For which her warriors bleed,
It still were right to crown with song
The warrior's noble deed --
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;
And that large phrase of yours
'A star among the stars,' my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,
Old Horace? 'I will strike,' said he,
'The stars with head sublime,'
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in space and time,
So drew perchance a happier lot
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch theis dusky dot --
Yon myriad-worlded way --
The vast sun clusters' gathered blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,
Whole heavens within themselves amaze
Our brief humanities.
And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,
Tho' carved in harder stone --
The falling drop will make his name
As mortal as my own.

IRENE

No!

POET

Let it live then - ay, till when?
Earth passes, all is lost
In what they prhesy, our wise men,
Sun-flame or sunless frost,
And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain
As far as man can see, except
The man himself remain;
And tho', in this lean age forlorn,
Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of those am I.
The man remains, and whatsoe'er
He wroght of good or brave
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year
That dawns behind th grave.

____________

And here the Singer for his art
No all in vain may plead
'The song that nerves a nation's heart
Is in itself a deed.'


_________________________________________________

It is a long poem, and it really tries too hard. He wrote THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE at a moment of national shock and amazement mingled with a type of twisted pride (magnificant but stupid incident). Here he is showing a far more successful charge, which is deserving of notice. He tries several times to copy rhythms (his repeat of "up the hill" is a dead copy of "half-a-league", but it was excitingly put in that poem). Tennyson's epilogue is to try to explain he does not glorify war, but as a matter of fact, as Poet Lauriate, he was expected to glorify the crown, the government and the armed forces. In a war scare of 1859 - 1860 he wrote a bad poem, "Form, form, rifleman form. Ready be ready to face the storm". It was still useful as a set of lines on preparedness for war when quoted by Tennyson's inept successor Alfred Austen in 1910 or so. THE HEAVY BRIGADE has some nice phrases in it, but it just lacks the brevity and sharpness of THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

reply

Hmmm, the Charge of the Heavy Brigade seems a bit laboured, compared to his more well-known poem. I suppose a heroic failure makes for a better theme than a more prosaic success?

reply

By RUDYARD KIPLING


There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

reply

By RUDYARD KIPLING


There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

reply