We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his “Sail On! Sail On!” Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our republic. Every man to his gun! Columbus discovered America in his own mind before he realised it or proved its existence. I have often drawn a chart of Columbus’s life and voyages to show what need he had of the motto “Sail On!” to accomplish his end. This is one of our greatest American poems. The writer still lives in California.
Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone; Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?” “Why say, sail on! and on!”
“My men grow mut’nous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave wash’d his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Admiral, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say, at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!’”
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanch’d mate said; “Why, now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, and say——” He said: “Sail on! and on!”
They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate: “This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one word; What shall we do when hope is gone?” The words leaped as a leaping sword: “Sail on! sail on! and on!”
Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And thro’ the darkness peered that night. Ah, darkest night! and then a speck,— A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew—a star-lit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn; He gained a world! he gave that world Its watch-word: “On! and on!” |
Joaquin Miller.
Once a year the children learn “The Shepherd of King Admetus,” which is one of the finest poems ever written as showing the possible growth of real history into mythology, the tendency of mankind to deify what is fine or sublime in human action. Not every child will learn this entire poem, because it is too long. But every child will learn the best lines in it while the children are teaching it to me and when I take my turn in teaching it to them. No child fails to catch the spirit and intent of the poem and to become entirely familiar with it. (1819-91.)
There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.
Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men’s bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.
Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:
And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o’er his sheep.
His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.
Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.
They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.
It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman’s eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.
Yet after he was dead and gone, And e’en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.
And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god. |
James Russell Lowell.
I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” I should judge from this essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.)
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; “Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; “Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her, We’ll remember at Aix”—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, ’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”
“How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is—friends flocking round As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voting by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent. |
Robert Browning.
“The Burial of Sir John Moore” was one of my reading-lessons when I was a child. A distinguished teacher says: “It has become a part of popular education,” as has also “The Eve of Waterloo” and “The Death of Napoleon.” They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and graphic. (1791-1823.)
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,— But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory! |
C. Wolfe.
“The Eve of Waterloo,” by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy’s heart if he only reads it a few times.
There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell: But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon’s opening roar!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, “The foe! They come! They come!”
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day, Battle’s magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider, and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent! |
Lord Byron.
Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited “King Henry of Navarre” every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little town. (1800-59.)
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel’s stout infantry, and Egmont’s Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood, And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord the King!” “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André’s plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,—upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember St. Bartholomew!” was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the Religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny has ta’en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta’en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearman’s souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. |
Thomas B. Macaulay.
“The Glove and the Lions” was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of “fair” women. A woman be a “true knight” as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.)
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And ’mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp’d and roar’d the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”
De Lorge’s love o’erheard the King,—a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem’d the same: She thought, “The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.”
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look’d at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain’d his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. “Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely done!” and he rose from where he sat: “No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.” |
Leigh Hunt.
I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England—not the poem, but the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey (1774-1843).
A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west-country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree.
There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.
“Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, “For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.
“Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I’ll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.”
“I have left a good woman who never was here,” The stranger he made reply; “But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why.”
“St. Keyne,” quoth the countryman, “many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.
“If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.
“But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!” The stranger stoop’d to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.
“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?” He to the countryman said; But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.
“I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch, But i’ faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church,” |
Robert Southey.
“The Nautilus and the Ammonite” finds a place here out of respect to a twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled, I never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous.
The nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife, Each sent to float in its tiny boat On the wide, wide sea of life.
For each could swim on the ocean’s brim, And, when wearied, its sail could furl, And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, In its palace all of pearl.
And theirs was a bliss more fair than this Which we taste in our colder clime; For they were rife in a tropic life— A brighter and better clime.
They swam ’mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy; Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, And life one only joy.
They sailed all day through creek and bay, And traversed the ocean deep; And at night they sank on a coral bank, In its fairy bowers to sleep.
And the monsters vast of ages past They beheld in their ocean caves; They saw them ride in their power and pride, And sink in their deep-sea graves.
And hand in hand, from strand to strand, They sailed in mirth and glee; These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, Twin sisters of the sea.
And they came at last to a sea long past, But as they reached its shore, The Almighty’s breath spoke out in death, And the ammonite was no more.
So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, As over the deep it strays, Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, Its companion of other days.
And alike do we, on life’s stormy sea, As we roam from shore to shore, Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, And find them on earth no more.
Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, As we look to a distant strand, Where heart meets heart, and no more they part Who meet in that better land. |
Anonymous.
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,— I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, Friendship, and Love, Divinely bestow’d upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.
Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more!
My friends—do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the seafowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There’s mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. |
William Cowper.
I wonder if the English people appreciate “The Homes of England.” It is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to have had such a home as Ann Hathaway’s humble cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. (1749-1835.)
The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman’s voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.
The blessèd homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlets’ fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child’s glad spirit loves Its country and its God! |
Felicia Hemans.
“Horatius at the Bridge” is too long a poem for children to memorise.
But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. “Hold the
bridge with me!” Boys like that motto instinctively.
T.B. Macaulay
(1800-59).
Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting-day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.
East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome!
The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain, From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine.
The harvests of Arretium, This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome.
There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o’er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore.
And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: “Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; Go forth, beloved of Heaven; Go, and return in glory To Clusium’s royal dome; And hang round Nurscia’s altars The golden shields of Rome.”
And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting-day.
For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain.
I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall.
They held a council standing Before the River Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spoke the Consul roundly: “The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: “To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here.” On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer, fast, and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly, Above the glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium Was the highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul.
Fast by the royal standard, O’erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name, And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame.
But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat toward him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist.
But 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 spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late; And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods.
“And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame?
“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?”
Then out spake Spurius Lartius— A Ramnian proud was he— I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.” 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 say’st, so let it be,” And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.
Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax; And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: 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;
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.
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 Amid the reeds of Cosa’s fen. And wasted fields and slaughtered men Along Albinia’s shore.
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 tracks of thy destroying bark, No more Campania’s hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accurséd sail.”
But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. Six spears’ length from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth 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.
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 wildcat 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 the deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus 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 of 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 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 hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amid bones and blood.
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.”
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.
But meanwhile ax 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!”
Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, 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.
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.”
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:
“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, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.
And fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain; And fast his blood was flowing, And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing place; But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good Father Tiber Bore bravely up his chin.
“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 Porsena, “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.
They gave him of the corn land, That was of public right. As much as two strong oxen Could plow from morn till night: And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie.
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.
And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amid the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armour, And trims his helmet’s plume; When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom,— With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. |
Thomas B. Macaulay.