"Fill every beaker up, my men; pour forth the cheering wine; "Ye're there, but yet I see you not; draw forth each trusty sword, Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry, "But I defy him; let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, 86. HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.-Thomas B. Macaulay. Idem. The Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?" Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate: "In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. And out spake strong Herminius,— of Titian blood was he,— "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." Horatius," quoth the Consul, as thou sayest, so let it be." 66 66 And straight against that great array, forth went the dauntless Three. Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three. But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied, Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back; And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack; But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, And battlement, and plank, and pier, whirled 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 Porsěna, now yield thee to our grace." 66 Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; 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 fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, "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 Porsěna, "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. 87. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.-Dimond. Effusive O., poetic monotone. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,— With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest "O God! thou hast blest me,-I ask for no more. Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his dark wings o'er the wave. O sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss. O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall love, home or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid, Days, months, years and ages shall circle away, O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Med. 88. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.-Robert Lowell. P., O. and A., all kinds of force. Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last: Low. That the enemy's lines crept surely on, Med. To yield to that foe was worse than death, There was one of us, a corporal's wife, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, High. "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! then please waken me." Med. Low. Med. She slept like a child on her father's floor When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, I sank to sleep; and I had my dream High. And wall and garden;-but one wild scream Low. Med. 4. There Jessie Brown stood listening, All over her face, and she caught my hand |