And in the nights of winter
When the cold north-winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst 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 armor,
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 Babington Macaulay [1800-1859]

LEONIDAS

[480 B. C.]

SHOUT for the mighty men

Who died along this shore,

Who died within this mountain's glen!

For never nobler chieftain's head

Was laid on valor's crimson bed,

Nor ever prouder gore

Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day

Upon thy strand, Thermopyla!

Shout for the mighty men

Who on the Persian tents,

Like lions from their midnight den
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rushed a storm of sword and spear;
Like the roused elements,

Let loose from an immortal hand
To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear—
Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonidas! no hand is near
To lift thy falchion now;

No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-washed grave.

The voice that should be raised by men
Must now be given by wave and glen.

And it is given! The surge,

The tree, the rock, the sand
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!

The vision of thy band

Still gleams within the glorious dell
Which their gore hallowed as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?

Mother of men like these!
Has not thy outcry gone

Where justice has an ear to hear?
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear,
Till in thy crimsoned seas

Are plunged the chain and scimitar.
Greece shall be a new-born star!

George Croly [1780-1860]

ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA

[AUGUST, 30 B. C.]

I AM dying, Egypt, dying!
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast;

Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear,
Listen to the great heart-secrets

Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,
And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore;
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,

I must perish like a Roman,

Die the great Triumvir still.

Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low;

'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him,
'Twas his own that struck the blow:
His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray—
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.

Should the base plebeian rabble.
Dare assail my name at Rome,
Where the noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her; say the gods bear witness,—
Altars, augurs, circling wings,-
That her blood, with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian-
Glorious sorceress of the Nile!-
Light the path to Stygian horrors,
With the splendor of thy smile;
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine:
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying!

Hark! the insulting foeman's cry;
They are coming-quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah, no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee—
Cleopatra-Rome-farewell!

William Haines Lytle [1826-1863]

BOADICEA: AN ODE
[62 A. D.]

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess! if our agèd eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish:-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

"Other Romans shall arise

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

'Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.”

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rushed to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

"Ruffians! pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you!"

William Cowper [1731-1800]

"HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN"

[NOVEMBER, 1120]

THE bark that held the prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown

To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne,

Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those who mourn?—

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,

The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave?