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 wild cat 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 hand-breadth out
Behind the Tuscan's head.

But meanwhile axe 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.

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;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he;

But he saw on Palatinus1

The white porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'Oh, 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.

But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain :

1 Palatinus, one of the hills of Rome,

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.

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.

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 Algidus1
Roar louder yet within ;

When the good man mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the good wife'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.

Algidus, a mountain twelve miles from Rome.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. (BURNS.)

THOU lingering star! with lessening ray.
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget

Can I forget the hallowed grove Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace :

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last.

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray ;
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

NOTE.-Mary Campbell, or Highland Mary, was engaged to be married to Burns. Previous to her paying a visit to her friends in Argyleshire the poet met her on the banks of the Ayr. This was their last interview. On her way back to Ayrshire she took ill and died at Greenock.

THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. (JAMES SMITH.)

James Smith was born in London in 1775, and died in 1839. He wrote poems for the monthly magazines in conjunction with his brother Horace. In 1812 they published a volume of poems entitled 'The Rejected Addresses,' containing imitations of Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, &c. This is their most popular work.

WILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one night

As a soldier lay stretched in his cell,

And anon, 'mid the darkness, the moon's silver light
On his countenance dreamily fell.

Naught could she reveal but a man true as steel,
That oft for his country had bled;

And the glance of his eye might the grim king defy,
For despair, fear, and trembling had fled.

But in

rage he had struck a well-merited blow
At a tyrant who held him in scorn;

And his fate soon was sealed, for alas! honest Joe
Was to die on the following morn.

Oh, sad was the thought to a man that had fought
'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave—
To be shot through the breast at a coward's behest,
And laid low in a criminal's grave!