LXII.

Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,

Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing place:

But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,

And our good father Tiber

Bare bravely up his chin.*

LXIII.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus;
"Will not the villain drown?

But for this stay, ere close of day
We should have sacked the town!"
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena,

"And bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms
Was never seen before."

Yet, through good heart and our Lady's grace,

At length he gained the landing place."

Lay of the Last Minstrel, I.

LXIV.

And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

LXV.

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.

LXVI.

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.

LXVII.

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.

LXVIII.

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;

LXIX.

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;

LXX.

When the goodman mends his armor,
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.

THE

BATTLE OF THE LAKE REGILLUS.