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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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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-accursèd 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 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.

But at his haughty challenge

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

Along that glittering van.

There lacked not men of prowess,

Nor men of lordly race, For all Etruria's noblest

Were round the fatal place.

But when they turned their faces,

And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have crossed once more ;

But all Etruria's noblest

Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses,

In the path the dauntless three; And from the ghastly entrance,

Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, -- like boys who, unaware, Ranging the woods to start a bare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear

Lies anidst bones and blood.

But with a crash like thunder

Fell every loosened beanı, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck

Lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph

Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops

Was splashed the yellow foam.

And like a horse unbroken,

When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard,

And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded,

Rejoicing to be free; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement and plank and pier,

Rushed headlong to the sea.

Was none who would be foremost

To lead such dire attack ; But those behind cried “ Forward !"

And those before cried “Back !" And backward now and forward

Wavers the deep array ;
And on the tossing sea of steel
To and fro the standards reel,
And the victorious trumpet-peal

Dies fitfully away.
Yet one man for one moment

Strode out before the crowd ;
Well known was he to all the three,

And they gave him greeting loud : “Now welcome, welcome, Sextus !

Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away?

Here lies the road to Rome."

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!”

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Thrice looked he at the city ;

Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury,

And thrice turned back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred,

Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,

The bravest Tuscans lay.

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 :

But meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been plied ; And now the bridge hangs tottering

Above the boiling tide. Come back, come back, Horatius!”

Loud cried the Fathers all, “ Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius!

Back, ere the ruin fall !”

“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.

Back darted Spurius Lartius,

Herminius darted back ; And, as they passed, beneath their feet

They felt the timbers crack.

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

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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 inolten inage,

And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day

To witness if I lie.

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 ! 't is Rome demands your

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

senate

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.

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CANADA NOT LAST.

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

strange:
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.

AT ROME.
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

foam
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

serene

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REFLECTION.
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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