And a long shout of triumph Was splashed the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken And whirling down in fierce career, 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 The white porch of his home; 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, And spent with changing blows; Never, I ween, did swimmer, Struggle through such a raging flood But his limbs were borne up bravely 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; And now with shouts and clapping, They gave him of the corn-land, 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 it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, How valiantly he kept the bridge Thomas Babington Macaulay. Lines from The Ring and the Book (Rome) BUT through the blackness I saw Rome again, And where a solitary villa stood In a lone garden-quarter: it was eve, Another sample-speech i' the market-place Puffs up steel sleet which breaks to diamond dust, Robert Browning. The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church (Rome) (It is nearly all that I said of the Central Renaissance, its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin-in thirty pages of the "Stones of Venice," put into as many lines, Browning's being also the antecedent work. -John Ruskin.) ROME, 15 VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews Well sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! She, men would have to be your mother once, And as she died so we must die ourselves, In this state chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. |