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But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide:
And the great Lord of Luna comes, with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans, a smile serene and high;
Then whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height,
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius he leaned one breathing-space, Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head.
On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain, ere he wrenched out the
"And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?
But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran,
For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place.
But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corses, in the path the dauntless Three.
And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank like boys who unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
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
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"
Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back;
But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream
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
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "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:
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 now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands;
HAT can I fear? Will it be death? But you know that Christ is my life, and that I shall gain by death. Will it be exile? But the earth and its fullness is the Lord's. Will it be the loss of wealth? But we brought nothing into the world, and we carry out nothing. All the terrors of the world are contemptible in my eyes, and I smile at all its good things. Poverty I do not fear. Riches I do not sigh for. Death I do not shrink from, and life I do not desire, save only for the progress of your souls. But you know, , my friends, the true cause of my fall. It is that I have not lined my house with rich tapestry. It is that I have not clothed me in robes of silk. It is that I have not flattered the effeminacy and sensuality of certain men, nor laid gold and silver at their feet. But why need I say more? Jezabel is raising her persecution, and Elias must fly. Herodias is asking her pleasure, and John must be bound in chains. The Egyptian wife tells her lie, and Joseph must be thrown into prison. And so, if they banish me, I shall be like Elias; if they draw me into the mire, like Jeremiah; if they plunge me into the sea,
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
like the prophet Jonah; if in the pit, like Daniel; if they stone me, it is Stephen that I shall resemble; John the forerunner, if they cut off my head; Paul, if they beat me with stripes; Isaiah, if they saw me asunder.
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.-H. G. BELL.
LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens, with their broad, green walks, where soft the footstep falls;
And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed,
And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper
That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs
And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,
The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of
And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng;
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might,
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its flowers?
The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its
And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay,
The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a throne.-
No marvel that the lady wept; it was the land of France,
The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood