Let not Cæsar's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low; 'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, [blow: 'T was his own that struck the His, who pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray, His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away. Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her; say the gods bear witness Altars, augurs, circling wingsThat her blood, with mine commingled, [kings. Yet shall mount the throne of As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! I am dying, Egypt, dying! They are coming-quick, my fal chion! Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell; Isis and Osiris guard thee! Cleopatra - Rome - farewell! THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. FROM THE LAY OF "HORATIUS." | Like an eagle's nest hangs on the LARS PORSENA of Clusium, And named a trysting-day, East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome! The horsemen and the footmen Which, hid by beech and pine, crest Of purple Apennine: There be thirty chosen prophets, Who always by Lars Porsena Have turned the verses o'er, And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: To Clusium's royal dome, And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus But the Consul's brow was sad, Before the bridge goes down; Then out spake brave Horatius, Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers 66 And for the tender mother Who feed the eternal flame, "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, May well be stopped by three: Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes: A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. But, hark! the cry is Astur: Comes with his stately stride. 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, If Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword And smote with all his might. It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joyful cry He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space, Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth and skull and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, Lout The good sword stood a handbreadth Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Avernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest Yet one man for one moment Thrice looked he at the city; And thrice turned back in dread; 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 - And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more; But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened 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 splashed the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken, When first he feels the rein, |