But when they turned their faces, Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more; LV. But with a crash like thunder As to the highest turret-tops LVI. And like a horse unbroken, And whirling down, in fierce career, LVII. 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!" LVIII. Round turned he, as not deigning 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: LIX. "O Tiber! father Tiber ! To whom the Romans pray, LX. 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, LXI. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain, And fast his blood was flowing; And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows; And oft they thought him sinking, And still again he rose. LXII. Never, I ween, did swimmer, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place ; But his limbs were borne up bravely LXIII. "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus, 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 LXIV. And now he feels the bottom; LXV. 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 LXVI. It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see, Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee; And underneath is written, How valiantly he kept the bridge LXVII. And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold LXVIII. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the good logs of Algidus LXIX. When the oldest cask is opened, When the chestnuts glow in the embers When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets, LXX. . 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. LORD MACAULAY. THE CHURCH OF THE BEST LICKS. JUST as the flame on the forestick, which Ralph had watched so intensely, flickered and burned low, and just as Ralph, with a heavy but not quite hopeless heart, rose to leave, the latch lifted, and Bud re-entered. "I want to say something," he stammered; "but you know it's hard to say it. I ha'n't no book-larnin' to speak of; and some things is hard to say when a man ha'n't got book-words to say 'em with. And they's some things a man can't hardly ever say anyhow to anybody." Here Bud stopped. But Ralph spoke in such a matter-ofcourse way in reply, that he felt encouraged to go on. "You gin up Hanner kase you thought she belonged to me. That's more'n I'd a done by a long shot. Now, arter I left here just now, I says to myself, 'A man what can gin up his gal on account of such a feeling for the rights of a FlatCricker like me, why, dog on it,' says I, 'such a man is the man as can help me do better.' I don't know whether you're a Hardshell or a Saftshell, or a Methodist, or a Campbellite, or a New Light, or a United Brother, or a Millerite, or what not. But I says, 'The man what can do the clean thing by a ugly feller like me, and stick to it, when I was just ready to eat him up, is a kind of a man to tie to.'' Here Bud stopped in fright at his own volubility; for he had run his words off like a piece learned by heart, as though afraid that if he stopped he would not have courage to go on. Ralph said that he did not yet belong to any church, and he was afraid he couldn't do Bud much good. But his tone was full of sympathy, and what is better than sympathy, a yearning for sympathy. "You see," said Bud, "I wanted to git out of this lowlived, Flat-Crick way of livin'. We're a hard set down here, Mr. Hartsook; and I'm gettin' to be one of the hardest of |