And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?

"And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, —
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame ?

"Hew down the bridge, sir consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play, In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?"

Then outspake Spurius Lartius, -

A Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And outspake strong Herminius, Of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee."

The three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter

From all the vanguard rose;

And forth three chief: came spurring

Before that deep array;

To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew

To win the narrow way.

Anus, from green Tifernum,

Lord of the hill of vines;

Ard Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;

And Picus, long to Clusium

Vassal in peace and war,

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers

From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers

O'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth;

At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thrust,

And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii

Rushed on the Roman three; And Lausulus of Urgo,

The rover of the sea;

And Aruns of Volsinium,

Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns;

Lartius laid Ocnus low; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow:

"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate!

No more, aghast and pale,

From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
The track of thy destroying bark;
No more Campania's hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns, when they spy
Thy thrice-accursed sail !"

But now no sound of laughter
Was heard among the foes;

A wild and wrathful clamor
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' lengths from the entrance,
Halted that deep array,

And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow way.

But, hark! the cry is Astur:

And lo the ranks divide; And the great lord of Luna

Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shake the brand Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans, A smile serene and high;

He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eve.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter

Stand savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"

Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might

Rejoicing to be free;

And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement and plank and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.

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

Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,

To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river

That rolls by the towers of Rome :

"O Tiber! Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!' So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

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 fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,

And spent with changing blows;
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing-place;
But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber
Bare bravely up his chin.

When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;

When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

SEMPRONIUS'S SPEECH FOR WAR.

My voice is still for war. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And at the head of our remaining troops Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him.

Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.

Rise! Fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help:
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
Manures the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here deliberating, in cold debates,

If we should sacrifice our lives to honor,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame! Our brothers of Pharsalia
Point out their wounds, and cry aloud, — "To
battle!"

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged among us.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

HERMANN AND THUSNELDA,

[Hermann, or, as the Roman historians call him, Arminius, was a chieftain of the Cheruscans, a tribe in Northern Germany. After serving in Illyria, and there learning the Roman arts of warfare, he came back to his native country, and fought successfully for its independence. He defeated beside a defile near Detmold, in Westphalia, the Roman legions under Varus, with a slaughter so mortifying that the Proconsul is said to have killed himself, and Augustus to have received the catastrophe with indecorous expressions of grief.]

HA! there comes he, with sweat, with blood of
Romans,

And with dust of the fight all stained! O, never
Saw I Hermann so lovely!
Never such fire in his eyes!

Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the Eagle, And the red, dripping sword! come, breathe, and rest thee;

Rest thee here in my bosom;
Rest from the terrible fight!

Was struck-struck like a dog — by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not

I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to

ye

I had a brother once, a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of Heaven upon his face which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son ! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse,
ye slaves!

Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl

father

Cold and silent in death? O, had Augustus Only headed his army,

He should lie bloodier there!"

Let me lift up thy hair; 't is sinking, Hermann; Proudly thy locks should curl above the crown

now!

Sigmar is with the immortals!
Follow, and mourn him no more!

KLOPSTOCK. Translation of
CHARLES T. BROOKS.

To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans.
Why, in that elder day to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus ! - once again I swear
The eternal city shall be free!

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

FRIENDS!

I came not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves! - slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages,
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark
fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day
An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,-