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And forth three chiefs 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.

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.

Aunus, from green Tifernum,

Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And 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.

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 ?" .

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.

Then, whirling up his broadsword

With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius,

And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius

Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joyful cry

To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius

He leaned one breathing-space,
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,

Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth and skull and helmet

So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a hand breadth out

Behind the Tuscan's head.

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 !"

And the great lord of Luna

Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Avernus

A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest

The giant arms lie spread ;
And the pale augurs, muttering low

Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur's throat Horatius

Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,

Ere he wrenched out the steel.
And “See,” he cried, “the welcome,

Fair guests, that waits you here !
What noble Lucumo comes next

To taste our Roman cheer ?" But at his haughty challenge

A sullen murmur ran, Mingled with wrath and shame and dread,

Along that glittering van.

But now no sound of laughter

Was heard among the foes; A wild and wrathful clamor

From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' length from the entrance,

Halted that mighty mass,
And for a space no man came forth

To win the narrow pass.

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It stands in the Comitium,

Plain for all folk to see, — Horatius in his harness,

Halting upon one knee ; And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.

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

bondage. Rise! Fathers, rise ! 't is Rome demands your

help: Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse rf half her




LO! Venice, gay with color, lights and song,
Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and

I am the Witch of Cities! glide along

My silver streets that never wear by change
Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong,
And every sorrow reigning men among.

Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee
To my illusions. Old and siren strong,

I smile immortal, while the mortals flee
Who whiten on to death in wooing me.

Say, what more fair by Arno's bridged gleam

Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato's slope
At eventide, when west along the stream

The last of day reflects a silver hope! Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam :The city's mass blent in one hazy cream,

The brown Dome'midst it, and the Lily tower, And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that

seem Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power On this side greenly dark with cypress, vine

and bower.

End of desire to stray I feel would come

Though Italy were all fair skies to me,
Though France's fields went mad with flowery

And Blanc put on a special majesty,
Not all could match the growing thought of home
Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on Rome-

This ancient, modern, medieval queen -
Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome,

Imperial ruin and villa's princely scene
Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods

Rome, Florence. Venice — noble, fair and quaint,

They reign in robes of magic round me here;
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,

With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.
Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!

I see the fields, I see the autumn hand
Of God upon the maples ! Answer Him

With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst !
I see the sun break over you: the mist

On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb! — the dream, it is my
native land.

William Douw LIGHTHALL.

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