And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
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 straight path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartiùs;
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
"As thou say'st, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great;
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers,
In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the tribunes beard the high,
And the fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;

Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old.

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen

Could plough from morn till night;

And they made a molten image,

And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee:
And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them.
To charge the Volscian home :
And wives still pray to Juno
For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit,

When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily

Goes flashing through the loom;

With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

(By permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co.)

THE QUAKER AND THE ROBBER.

A TRAVELLER Wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;
His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours-except on his nose:
And he met with a lady, the story goes.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink,

And the traveller was nothing loth, I think! Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the quaker he grinn'd, for he'd very good teeth; And he asked, "Art thou going to ride on the heath?"

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid,
"As to ride this heath over I am sadly afraid;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't for anything I should be found:
For between you and me I have five hundred pound."

"If that is thine own, dear," the Quaker said,
"I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my
saddle-bow:
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

The maiden she smiled, and the rein she drew,
"Your offer I'll take, though I'll not take you!"
A pistol she held to the Quaker's head-
"Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead:
'Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

And the damsel ripp'd up the saddle-bow,
And the Quaker was ne'er a quaker till now;
And he saw by the fair one he wish'd for a bride,
His purse drawn away with a swaggering stride,
And the eye that looked tender now only defied.

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she,

"To take all this filthy temptation from thee;
For mammon deceives, and beauty is fleeting.
Accept from thy maiden a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this happy meeting.

"And hark, jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness more than a lass in your eye;
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one you met on the heath:

Her name's Jimmy Barlow-I tell to your teeth."

"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favour, d'ye see!
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's-and truly on thee I depend
To make it appear I my trust did defend.

"So fire a few shots through my coat here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desperate affair."

So Jim he popp'd first through the skirts of his coat, And then through his collar, quite close to his throat; "Now once through my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I vote."

"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're spent,

And I won't load again for a make-believe rent." "Then," said Ephraim, producing his pistols," "just give

My five hundred pounds back, or, as sure as you live,
I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve."

Jim Barlow was diddled-and though he was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,

That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers,
And when the whole story got into the papers,

They said that the thieves were no match for the Quakers.