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Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Hub. Is this your promise ? go to hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes; Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert ! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes : 0, spare mine eyes ; Though to no use but still to look on you ! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me.
Hub. I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be used In undeserved extremes : see else yourself; There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head.
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
Hub. Well, see to live: I will not touch thine eyes,
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : *
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised.
Hub. Peace! no more. Adieu !
Arth. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.
Hub. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee.
Lars PORSENA of Clusium
By the Nine Gods he swore
Should suffer wrong no more.
And named a trysting day,
To summon his array.
The messengers ride fast,
Have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march for Rome.
Are pouring in amain
From many a fruitful plain ;
Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine.
* * * * * Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill ;
Is to the herdsman dear;
The great Volsinian mere.
Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path
Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus
Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium,
This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep ;
And in the vats of Luna,
This year the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls,
Whose sires have marched to Rome.
To eastward and to westward
Have spread the Tuscan bands ; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote,
In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia
Hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate,
There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Up rose the Fathers all;
And hied them to the wall.
Before the River-gate;
For musing or debate.
“The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost,
Nought else can save the town.” Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with haste and fear: “To arms! to arms! Sir Consul !
Lars Porsena is here.”
On the low hills to westward
The Consul fixed his eye,
Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer
Doth the red whirlwind come;
The trampling and the hum.
Now through the gloom appears,
The long array of spears.
[Here Horatius, Lartius, and Herminius undertake to keep back the enemy from passing the bridge till it can be hewn down.]
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Of a broad sea of gold.
A peal of warlike glee,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,