The furious river struggled hard, And whirling down, in fierce career, Alone stood brave Horatius, With a smile on his pale face; 66 Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace!" Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see: The white porch of his home; "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, 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, GEORGE MACDONALD. THE BABY. WHERE did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. O LASSIE ayont the hill! Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava! I'm sick o' my heid, and my han's and my face, An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. | For she, but few sad days before, Had lost the little babe she bore; The present drear and overcast. And as they stood beneath the tree, Death had bowed the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed: Her marriage robes were fitted on, Her fair young face with blushes shone, When the Destroyer smote her low, And left the lover to his woe. And these three listened to the song Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, |