All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along—
Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home,
He felt himself an Emperor—the bravest man of Rome.
The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew,
Then drifted back along the road to look for something new.
Then Horatius sobered down a bit—as you would do to-day—
And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way.
He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry,
And set a parting in his hair—the same as you and I.
His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down,