Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre 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 shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came through the jaws 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 wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! A. Tennyson. CCXX. ARNOLD WINKELREID. "Make way for liberty!"--he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!-- It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power! All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm clung victory. It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelreid! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood among the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the bursting storm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.