Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 102.djvu/310

294 vehemence of emotion, stormy enough to prove that, pace Mr. White, Isabella is not "utterly without impulse." But in good sooth, there needs but a certain gift of special pleading, and a steady one-sidedness of view, to do with any other of Shakspeare's women what Mr. White has done with the votaress already abused by Mrs. Lenox—to make Rosalind a mere prurient foul-talker, Perdita a forward minx, Ophelia an impure-minded and double-tongued trifler, Hermione a harsh unforgiving piece of austerity, with no more of milk in her bosom or warm blood in her veins than the statue she finally and fitly represented.

breeze hath blown the thick dun smoke aside,

And, through that riven pall,

Ye see the lion-standard, eagle's pride,

Ye see each firm battalion deep and wide—

A flashing, bristling wall!

Advance!—'tis heard amidst the guns that boom

Above the assailants' heads like voice of doom;

For Alma's heights are crowded by the foe,

Who still defy, pour death on those below.

The balls deep plough the ground,

The dying lean around,

But scorn to groan or sigh,

A bright flash in each eye,

As though that eye could see

The coming victory.

Advance!—the serried lines their front extend,

Where valour, power, and matchless order blend.

Bold Albion lifts her standard high,

And Gallia's sons will do or die;

And like a myriad stars at night,

The bayonet-points are gleaming bright;

And dauntless chiefs have drawn their swords,

That long to fall on yonder hordes.—

See! up the hill the unflinching heroes dash,

Still comes the iron down with whir and crash;

But nothing shakes that line—a moving rock;

A living billow—what may stand the shock?

Oh! on that charge the fate of Nations hangs!

If fruitless made, the Northern Monster's fangs

A deeper hold on Europe's form may gain,

And links be added to a tyrant's chain.

Where wild goats scarce may leap,

The brave Gauls mount the steep,

Their Chasseurs in hot ire

Open their deadly fire;

The steady British still,

As all press up the hill,