And the troopers sit in their saddles all Like statues carved in an ancient hall, And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks, And their spurs are close to the horses’ flanks, And the fingers work of the sabre hand-- Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand! And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, And away they plunge, and the front is passed! And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod As they gallop right on o’er the plashy red sod-- Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, Right up to the guns black-throated and grim, Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, Right through the dense columns--then “_Right about wheel!_” Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, Amen! [Illustration] [Illustration] THE CAVALRY CHARGE. BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE. With bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling. Tramp! tramp! o’er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order: “_Trot out!_” One hand on the sabre, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word “_Gallop!_” The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse’s hot flank: And swift is their rush As the wild torrent’s flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below. “_Charge!_” thunders the leader: Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabres Are gleaming in air: A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left!-- For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-scattered reeds. Vain--vain the red volley That bursts from the square,-- The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,-- No sabre that’s stainless Returns to its sheath. The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken-- Hurrah! boys, they fly! None linger save those Who but linger to die.