Puslapio vaizdai
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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 stopped by three: Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?"

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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,
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,

Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,

Where stood the dauntless three.

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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:

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.

"Now yield thee," cried Lars Por-"Curse on him!" quoth false Sex

sena,

"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,

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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 it 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.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE BABY.

WHERE did you come from, baby dear?

Out of the everywhere into here.

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O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL.

O LASSIE ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill,
For I want ye sair the nicht,
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel',
A body's sel''s the sairest weicht, -
O lassie, come ower the hill!

Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava!

I'm sick o' my heid, and my han's and my face,

I'm sick o' the warl' and a';
An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ;
The licht gangs by wi' a hiss;
For thro' my een the sunbeams fa',
But my weary heart they miss.
O lassie ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill;
Bidena ayont the hill!

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid,
And the sunlicht o' yer hair,
The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun
deid;

I wad be mysel' nae mair.
I wad be mysel' nae mair.
Filled o' the sole remeid;
Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer
hair,

Killed by yer body and heid.
O lassie ayont the hill, etc.

But gin ye lo'ed me ever sac sma',
For the sake o' my bonnie dame,
Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed
awa',

I could bide my body and name,
I micht bide by mysel, the weary

same;

Aye setting up its heid Till I turn frae the claes that cover my frame,

As gin they war roun' the deid.
O lassie ayont the hill, etc.

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The altar is snowy with blossoms,
The font is a vase of perfume,
On piliar and chancel are twining

Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom. Christ is risen! with glad lips we utter,

And far up the infinite height, Archangels the pæan re-echo,

ONLY WAITING.

ONLY waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From this heart once full of day, Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home. For the summer-time hath faded,

And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly,

The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear their footsteps

And their voices far away If they call me, I am waiting,

Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown. When from out the folded darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise,

And crown Him with Lilies of By whose light, my soul will gladly

Light!

Wing her passage to the skies.

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