Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams, And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And through the mountain walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail. * * * * * 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 though 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,