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, - "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, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Four hundred trumpets sounded 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 three stood calm and silent, From all the vanguard rose; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way. Herminius smote down Aruns; "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; 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, hark! the cry is Astur: Comes with his stately stride. 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, If Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword And smote with all his might. It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 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, [out The good sword stood a handbreadth 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. Back darted Spurius Lartius 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 The furious river struggled hard, And whirling down, in fierce career, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, Sextus, With a smile on his pale face; "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 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, tus "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; They gave him of the corn-land, And they made a molten image, It stands in the Comitium, How valiantly he kept the bridge till 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, An' my thochts and mysel' and a'; 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 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. |