"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here."

On the low hills to westward
The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.

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.

For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods?

"And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame?

"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three: Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?"

Wherefore men fight not as they fought

In the brave days of old.

Now while the three were tightening
Their harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe;
And fathers, mixed with commons,
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosed the props below,

But now no sound of laughter

Was heard among the foes: A wild and wrathful clamor

From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' length from the entrance,
Halted that mighty mass,
And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow pass.

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;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
Stands savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"

Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,

And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet
too nigh;

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 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.

Back darted Spurius Lartius -
Herminius darted back;

And, as they passed, beneath their feet

They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore

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,