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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>Lord Ullin's Daughter.</h3> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry." </div> <div class="stanza"> "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. </div> <div class="stanza"> "And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. </div> <div class="stanza"> "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" </div> <div class="stanza"> Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief—I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: </div> <div class="stanza"> "And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." </div> <div class="stanza"> By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. </div> <div class="stanza"> But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer. </div> <div class="stanza"> "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." </div> <div class="stanza"> The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. </div> <div class="stanza"> And still they row'd amid the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. </div> <div class="stanza"> For sore dismay'd through storm and shade, His child he did discover:— One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—oh my daughter!" </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;— The waters wild went o'er his child,— And he was left lamenting. </div> </td></tr></table> Thomas Campbell. <h3>The Charge of the Light Brigade.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Charge of the Light Brigade" (1809-92) unlike "Casabianca" shows obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any army. John Burroughs says: "I never hear that poem but what it thrills me through and through." </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> Flash'd all their sabers bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sab'ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the saber-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 death Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them— Left of six hundred. </div> <div class="stanza"> When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade— Noble six hundred! </div> </td></tr></table> Alfred Tennyson. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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