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-accurséd 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 shakes 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 eye.
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.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus,

"Will not the villain drown?

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;

Now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the fathers
To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the river-gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,

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
To witness if I lie.

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, waɛ 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!