Horatius at the Bridge

“Horatius at the Bridge” is too long a poem for children to memorise.But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. “Hold thebridge with me!” Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B. Macaulay

Lars Porsena of Clusium,By the Nine Gods he sworeThat the great house of TarquinShould 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 northThe messengers ride fast,And tower and town and cottageHave heard the trumpet’s blast.Shame on the false EtruscanWho lingers in his homeWhen Porsena of ClusiumIs on the march for Rome!

The horsemen and the footmenAre pouring in amain,From many a stately market-place,From many a fruitful plain;From many a lonely hamlet,Which, hid by beech and pine,Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crestOf purple Apennine.

The harvests of Arretium,This year, old men shall reap;This year, young boys in UmbroShall plunge the struggling sheep;And in the vats of Luna,This year, the must shall foamRound the white feet of laughing girlsWhose sires have marched to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets,The wisest of the land,Who alway by Lars PorsenaBoth morn and evening stand:Evening and morn the ThirtyHave turned the verses o’er,Traced from the right on linen whiteBy mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the ThirtyHave their glad answer given:“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;Go forth, beloved of Heaven;Go, and return in gloryTo Clusium’s royal dome;And hang round Nurscia’s altarsThe golden shields of Rome.”

And now hath every citySent up her tale of men;The foot are fourscore thousand,The horse are thousands ten.Before the gates of SutriumIs met the great array.A proud man was Lars PorsenaUpon the trysting-day.

For all the Etruscan armiesWere ranged beneath his eye,And many a banished Roman,And many a stout ally;And with a mighty followingTo join the muster cameThe Tusculan Mamilius,Prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow TiberWas tumult and affright:From all the spacious champaignTo Rome men took their flight.A mile around the city,The throng stopped up the ways;A fearful sight it was to seeThrough two long nights and days.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,Could the wan burghers spyThe line of blazing villagesRed in the midnight sky.The Fathers of the City,They sat all night and day,For every hour some horseman cameWith tidings of dismay.

To eastward and to westwardHave spread the Tuscan bands;Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot,In Crustumerium stands.Verbenna down to OstiaHath 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.Forthwith up rose the Consul,Up rose the Fathers all;In haste they girded up their gowns,And hied them to the wall.

They held a council standingBefore the River Gate;Short time was there, ye well may guess,For musing or debate.Out spoke 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 westwardThe Consul fixed his eye,And saw the swarthy storm of dustRise fast along the sky.

And nearer, fast, and nearerDoth 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 plainlyNow 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.

And plainly and more plainly,Above the glimmering line,Now might ye see the bannersOf twelve fair cities shine;But the banner of proud ClusiumWas the highest of them all,The terror of the Umbrian,The terror of the Gaul.

Fast by the royal standard,O’erlooking all the war,Lars Porsena of ClusiumSat in his ivory car.By the right wheel rode Mamilius,Prince of the Latian name,And by the left false Sextus,That wrought the deed of shame.

But when the face of SextusWas seen among the foes,A yell that rent the firmamentFrom all the town arose.On the house-tops was no womanBut spat toward him and hissed,No child but screamed out curses,And shook its little fist.

But the Consul’s brow was sad,And the Consul’s speech was low,And darkly looked he at the wall,And darkly at the foe.“Their van will be upon usBefore the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge,What hope to save the town?”

Then out spake brave Horatius,The Captain of the Gate:“To every man upon this earthDeath cometh soon or late;And how can man die betterThan facing fearful odds,For the ashes of his fathers,And the temples of his gods.

“And for the tender motherWho dandled him to rest,And for the wife who nursesHis baby at her breast,And for the holy maidensWho feed the eternal flame,To save them from false SextusThat 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 thousandMay well be stopped by three.Now who will stand on either hand,And keep the bridge with me?”

Then out spake Spurius Lartius--A Ramnian proud was he--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 arrayForth went the dauntless Three.For Romans in Rome’s quarrelSpared neither land nor gold,Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,In the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tighteningTheir harness on their backs,The Consul was the foremost manTo take in hand an ax;And Fathers mixed with CommonsSeized hatchet, bar, and crow,And smote upon the planks above,And loosed the props below.Meanwhile the Tuscan army,Right glorious to behold,Came flashing back the noonday light,Rank behind rank, like surges brightOf a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets soundedA peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread,And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,Rolled slowly toward 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 laughterFrom all the vanguard rose:And forth three chiefs came spurringBefore that deep array;To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,And lifted high their shields, and flewTo win the narrow way;

Aunus from green Tifernum,Lord of the Hill of Vines;And Seius, whose eight hundred slavesSicken in Ilva’s mines;And Picus, long to ClusiumVassal in peace and war,Who led to fight his Umbrian powersFrom that gray crag where, girt with towers,The fortress of Nequinum lowersO’er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down AunusInto the stream beneath;Herminius struck at Seius,And clove him to the teeth;At Picus brave HoratiusDarted one fiery thrust;And the proud Umbrian’s gilded armsClashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of FaleriiRushed on the Roman Three;And Lausulus of Urgo,The rover of the sea;And Aruns of Volsinium,Who slew the great wild boar,The great wild boar that had his denAmid the reeds of Cosa’s fen.And wasted fields and slaughtered menAlong Albinia’s shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns;Lartius laid Ocnus low;Right to the heart of LausulusHoratius sent a blow.“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate!No more, aghast and pale,From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall markThe tracks of thy destroying bark,No more Campania’s hinds shall flyTo woods and caverns when they spyThy thrice accurséd sail.”

But now no sound of laughterWas heard among the foes.A wild and wrathful clamourFrom all the vanguard rose.Six spears’ length from the entranceHalted that deep array,And for a space no man came forthTo win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur:And lo! the ranks divide;And the great Lord of LunaComes with his stately stride.Upon his ample shouldersClangs loud the fourfold shield,And in his hand he shakes the brandWhich none but he can wield.

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 litterStand savagely at bay;But will ye dare to follow,If Astur clears the way?”

Then, whirling up his broadswordWith both hands to the height,He rushed against Horatius,And smote with all his might.With shield and blade HoratiusRight 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 cryTo see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on HerminiusHe leaned one breathing space;Then, like a wildcat 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 outBehind the Tuscan’s head.

And the great Lord of LunaFell at the deadly stroke,As falls on Mount AlvernusA thunder-smitten oak.Far o’er the crashing forestThe giant arms lie spread;And the pale augurs, muttering low,Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur’s throat HoratiusRight firmly pressed his heel,And thrice and four times tugged amainEre he wrenched out the steel.“And see,” he cried, “the welcome,Fair guests, that waits you here!What noble Lucumo comes nextTo taste our Roman cheer?”

But at his haughty challengeA sullen murmur ran,Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,Along that glittering van.There lacked not men of prowess,Nor men of lordly race;For all Etruria’s noblestWere round the fatal place.

But all Etruria’s noblestFelt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses,In the path the dauntless Three:And, from the ghastly entranceWhere those bold Romans stood,All shrank, like boys who unaware,Ranging the woods to start a hare,Come to the mouth of the dark lairWhere, growling low, a fierce old bearLies amid bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremostTo lead such dire attack?But those behind cried “Forward!”And those before cried “Back!”And backward now and forwardWavers the deep array;And on the tossing sea of steelTo and fro the standards reel;And the victorious trumpet pealDies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one momentStrode out before the crowd;Well known was he to all the Three,And they gave him greeting loud:“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!Now welcome to thy home!Why dost thou stay, and turn away?Here lies the road to Rome.”

Thrice looked he at the city;Thrice looked he at the dead;And thrice came on in fury,And thrice turned back in dread:And, white with fear and hatred,Scowled at the narrow wayWhere, wallowing in a pool of blood,The bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile ax and leverHave manfully been plied,And now the bridge hangs totteringAbove the boiling tide.“Come back, come back, Horatius!”Loud cried the Fathers all.“Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius!Back, ere the ruin fall!”

Back darted Spurius Lartius;Herminius darted back:And, as they passed, beneath their feetThey felt the timbers crack.But when they turned their faces,And on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone,They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunderFell every loosened beam,And, like a dam, the mighty wreckLay right athwart the stream;And a long shout of triumphRose from the walls of Rome,As to the highest turret topsWas splashed the yellow foam.

And, like a horse unbrokenWhen first he feels the rein,The furious river struggled hard,And tossed his tawny mane;And burst the curb, and bounded,Rejoicing to be free,And whirling down, in fierce career,Battlement, and plank, and pier,Rushed headlong to the sea.

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 deigningThose craven ranks to see;Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,To Sextus naught spake he;But he saw on PalatinusThe white porch of his home;And he spake to the noble riverThat rolls by the towers of Rome:

“O Tiber! Father Tiber!To whom the Romans pray,A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,Take thou in charge this day!”So he spake, and speaking sheathedThe good sword by his side,And, with his harness on his back,Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrowWas 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 surgesThey saw his crest appear,All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,And even the ranks of TuscanyCould scarce forbear to cheer.

And 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,In such an evil case,Struggle through such a raging floodSafe to the landing place;But his limbs were borne up bravelyBy the brave heart within,And our good Father TiberBore bravely up his chin.

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus;“Will not the villain drown?But for this stay, ere close of dayWe should have sacked the town!”“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena,“And bring him safe to shore;For such a gallant feat of armsWas never seen before.”

And now he feels the bottom;Now on dry earth he stands;Now round him throng the FathersTo 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.

They gave him of the corn land,That was of public right.As much as two strong oxenCould plow from morn till night:And they made a molten image,And set it up on high,And there it stands unto this dayTo 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 bridgeIn the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirringUnto the men of Rome,As the trumpet blast that cries to themTo charge the Volscian home;And wives still pray to JunoFor boys with hearts as boldAs his who kept the bridge so wellIn the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,When the cold north winds blow,And the long howling of the wolvesIs heard amid the snow;When round the lonely cottageRoars loud the tempest’s din,And the good logs of AlgidusRoar 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 circleAround 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 merrilyGoes flashing through the loom,--With weeping and with laughterStill is the story told,How well Horatius kept the bridgeIn the brave days of old.