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 pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timbers
crack.
But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd once
more.
But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd 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 splash'd the yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane,
And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free,
And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and
pier,
Rush'd 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 turn'd 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.
"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,
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 sack'd 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 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.
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 open'd, 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[L] For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual form of the poem.