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 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 handbreadth out
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.

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 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 further 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;
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.

But 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 armor,

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.

Lord Macaulay.

THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog:-come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we 've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept outdoors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank-and starved together.

We 've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there 's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This outdoor business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir,—I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,

Are n't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot then,-we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that 's said,—
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There is n't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin!

By George! it makes my old eyes water!— That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you 're willing,

And Roger (hem! Shall march a little.

Stand straight!

Put up that paw!

what a plague a cough is, sir!)

Start, you villain!

'Bout face!

Salute your officer! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.

Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that 's five; he 's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!-
Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!-

Some brandy,-thank you,-there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,

That my poor stomach 's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love, but I took to drink,

The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features,— You need n't laugh, sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures:

I was one of your handsome men!