The furious river struggled hard,
And tossed his tawny mane,
And burst the curb, and bounded,
Rejoicing to be free;

And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement, and plank, and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.

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; 66 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,

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, 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,

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!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill,
For I want ye sair the nicht,
I'm needin' ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel',
A body's sel''s the sairest weicht,--
O lassie, come ower 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' ;
I'm sick o' the warl' and a';
The licht gangs by wi' a hiss;
For thro' my een the sunbeams fa',
But my weary heart they miss.
O lassie ayont the hill!
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill;
Bidena ayont the hill!

Had lost the little babe she bore;
And grief was heavy at her soul,
As that sweet memory o'er her stole,
And showed how bright had been the
past,

The present drear and overcast.

And as they stood beneath the tree,
Listening, soothed, and placidly,
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes,
Spake of a load of miseries;
And he, arrested like the twain,
Stopped to listen to the strain.

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,