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Short time was there, ye may well guess, Lars Porsena of Clusium

For musing or debate.

Out spake the consul roundly:

"The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught 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 fix'd 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,

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 housetops was no woman But spat toward him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, And shook its little fist.

But the consul's brow was sad,

And the consul's speech was low,
And darkly look'd 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?

"Hew 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 stopp'd 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 HerminiusOf 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 Went forth 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 help'd the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portion'd; 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, mix'd 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,

Came 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, Roll'd slowly toward the bridge's head,

Where stood the dauntless three.

The three stood calm and silent,
And look'd 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 narrow 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.

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