Autumn, 264 BC
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Greeks
Rode the twenty-three.
"Forward, the Praetoria!
"Charge for the flanks!" he said:
Into the valley of Greeks
Rode the twenty-three.
"Forward, the Praetoria!"
Cried the man called Oratoria.
Not tho' the soldier knew
The Legate had needed a pee:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to hold the fly:
Into the valley of Greeks
Rode the twenty-three.
Spears to right of them,
Spears to left of them,
Spears in front of them
Waver'd like trees;
Assault'd with odor and yell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the view of Greeks,
Into the vile smell
Rode the twenty-three.
Flash'd all their spatha bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Slashing the hoplites there,
Charging a phalanx, while
All the Legion could see:
Plunged in the enemy-joke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Epirote and Spartan
Reel'd from the spatha stroke
Turn'd to flee.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the twenty-three.
No spears to right of them,
No spears to left of them,
No spears behind them,
Waver'd like trees;
No longer assault'd with odor and yell,
No more horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the view of Greeks
Back from the vile smell,
All that was left of them,
Left of twenty-three.
When can their die their euphoria?
O the wild charge of the Oratoria!
All the Legion could see.
Honor the charge through historia,
Honor the Praetoria,
Noble twenty-three.
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