For the ashes of his fathers Who feed the eternal flame, "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, May well be stopped by three: Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the three were tightening Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless three. The furious river struggled hard, And whirling down, in fierce career, 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: 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, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place; But his limbs were borne up bravely And our good father Tiber "Now yield thee," cried Lars Por-"Curse on him!" quoth false Sex sena, "Now yield thee to our grace!" Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see: The white porch of his home; "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, 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 now he feels the bottom; They gave him of the corn-land, And they made a molten image, It stands in the Comitium, How valiantly he kept the bridge GEORGE MACDONALD. THE BABY. WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. O LASSIE ayont the hill! Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava! I'm sick o' my heid, and my han's and my face, I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid, I wad be mysel' nae mair. Killed by yer body and heid. But gin ye lo'ed me ever sac sma', I could bide my body and name, same; Aye setting up its heid Till I turn frae the claes that cover my frame, As gin they war roun' the deid. The altar is snowy with blossoms, Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom. Christ is risen! with glad lips we utter, And far up the infinite height, Archangels the pæan re-echo, ONLY WAITING. ONLY waiting till the shadows Of the day's last beam is flown; From this heart once full of day, Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home. For the summer-time hath faded, And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly, The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear their footsteps And their voices far away If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey. Only waiting till the shadows Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown. When from out the folded darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise, And crown Him with Lilies of By whose light, my soul will gladly Light! Wing her passage to the skies. |