Thomas Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome: Horatio"
A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX
- Lars Porsena of Closium
- 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;
- From lordly Volaterræ,
- Where scowls the far-famed hold
- Piled by the hands of giants
- For godlike kings of old;
- From seagirt Populonia,
- Whose sentinels descry
- Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops
- Fringing the southern sky;
- From the proud mart of Pisæ,
- Queen of the western waves,
- Where ride Massilia's triremes
- Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
- From where sweet Clanis wanders
- Through corn and vines and flowers;
- From where Cortona lifts to heaven
- Her diadem of towers.
- Tall are the oaks whose acorns
- Drop in dark Auser's rill;
- Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
- Of the Ciminian hill;
- Beyond all streams Clitumnus
- Is to the herdsman dear;
- Best of all pools the fowler loves
- The great Volsinian mere.
- But now no stroke of woodman
- Is heard by Auser's rill;
- No hunter tracks the stag's green path
- Up the Ciminian hill;
- Unwatched along Clitumnus
- Grazes the milk-white steer;
- Unharmed the water fowl may dip
- In the Volsminian mere.
- 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.
- For aged folks on crutches,
- And women great with child,
- And mothers sobbing over babes
- That clung to them and smiled,
- And sick men borne in litters
- High on the necks of slaves,
- And troops of sun-burned husbandmen
- With reaping-hooks and staves,
- And droves of mules and asses
- Laden with skins of wine,
- And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
- And endless herds of kine,
- And endless trains of wagons
- That creaked beneath the weight
- Of corn-sacks and of household goods,
- Choked every roaring gate.
- 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 come
- With tidings of dismay.
- To eastward and to westward
- Have spread the Tuscan bands;
- Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
- 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 spake the Consul roundly:
- ``The bridge must straight go down;
- For, since Janiculum is lost,
- Nought 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 that glimmering line,
- Now might ye see the banners
- Of twelve fair cities shine;
- But the banner of proud Clusium
- Was highest of them all,
- The terror of the Umbrian,
- The terror of the Gaul.
- And plainly and more plainly
- Now might the burghers know,
- By port and vest, by horse and crest,
- Each warlike Lucumo.
- There Cilnius of Arretium
- On his fleet roan was seen;
- And Astur of the four-fold shield,
- Girt with the brand none else may wield,
- Tolumnius with the belt of gold,
- And dark Verbenna from the hold
- By reedy Thrasymene.
- 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 towards 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?
- ``Haul 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 strait 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:
- ``Lo, 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 sayest, 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.
- Then none was for a party;
- Then all were for the state;
- Then the great man helped the poor,
- And the poor man loved the great:
- Then lands were fairly portioned;
- Then spoils were fairly sold:
- The Romans were like brothers
- In the brave days of old.
- Now Roman is to Roman
- More hateful than a foe,
- And the Tribunes beard the high,
- And the Fathers grind the low.
- As we wax hot in faction,
- In battle we wax cold:
- Wherefore men fight not as they fought
- 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 axe:
- 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,
- Come 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 towards 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 narrrow 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
- Amidst 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 track of thy destroying bark.
- No more Campania's hinds shall fly
- To woods and caverns when they spy
- Thy thrice accursed sail.''
- But now no sound of laughter
- Was heard among the foes.
- A wild and wrathful clamor
- From all the vanguard rose.
- Six spears' lengths 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 four-fold 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 hand-breadth out
- Behind the Tuscan's head.
- And the great Lord of Luna
- Fell at that 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 Lucomo comes next
- To taste our Roman cheer?''
- But at his haughty challange
- 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 amidst 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 frow 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 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.
- 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;
- Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
- To Sextus nought 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.
- ``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.
- 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.
- 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
- Bare 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 plough from morn till night;
- And they made a molten image,
- And set it up on high,
- And there is 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 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.
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