But all Etruria's noblest Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost And on the tossing sea of steel, But meanwhile axe and lever Above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" Loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder And, like a horse unbroken And whirling down, in fierce career, Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face, "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace." Round turned he, as not deigning The white porch of his home; "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank, But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And oft they thought him sinking, Never, I ween, did swimmer, Struggle through such a raging flood, "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; But for this stay, ere close of day, We should have sacked the town! "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "And bring him safe to shore, For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; They gave him of the corn-land, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day, It stands in the Comitium, * MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ROME. SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. MONCONTOUR. Он, weep for Moncontour! Oh, weep for the hour Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh, weep for the slain, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain; Oh, weep for the living who linger to bear The renegade's shame, and the exile's despair. One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers, |