THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (Born October 25, 1800; Died December 28, 1859)
Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the nine gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the nine gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.
East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain;
They held a council standing
Before the river-gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Outspake the Consul roundly:
"The bridge must straight go down;
For since Janiculum is lost
Naught 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, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer, fast and nearer,
Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly
Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three.
The three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose; And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that mighty mass;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow pass.
Aunus, from green Tifernum, Lord of the hill of vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war.
He smiled on those bold Romans, A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter Stand savagely at bay; But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?"
Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might, With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow,
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one breathing-space,
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth and skull and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head.
And the great lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Avernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?”
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