But with a crash like thunder And, like a horse unbroken And whirling down, in fierce career, FATHER TIBER 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. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, The white porch of his home; 'O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, 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, But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, Struggle through such a raging flood But his limbs were borne up bravely And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. 'Curse on him!' quoth false Sextus; 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.' And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; And now with shouts and clapping, They gave him of the corn-land, 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 It stands in the Comitium How valiantly he kept the bridge And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves When round the lonely cottage When the oldest cask is opened, When the goodman mends his armour Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. LXXXV THE ARMADA ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous, deeds she wrought in ancient days, |