Pagina-afbeeldingen
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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.
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 handbreadth out
Behind the Tuscan's head.

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.

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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."

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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.

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

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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