Poems Every Child Should Know Part 30

Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud: "Now welcome, welcome, s.e.xtus!

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 way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile ax and lever Have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering Above 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 pa.s.sed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack.

But when they turned their faces, And on the farther sh.o.r.e Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret tops Was splashed the yellow foam.

And, like a horse unbroken When 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 s.e.xtus, 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 Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To s.e.xtus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the n.o.ble river That 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 sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

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, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could 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 flood Safe to the landing place; But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good Father Tiber Bore bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false s.e.xtus; "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 sh.o.r.e; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before."

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.

They gave him of the corn land, That was of public right.

As much as two strong oxen Could plow 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.

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.

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.

And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amid the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar 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 circle Around 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 merrily Goes flas.h.i.+ng 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.

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

"The Planting of the Apple-Tree" has become a favourite for "Arbour Day" exercises. The planting of trees as against their destruction is a vital point in our political and national welfare. William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878).

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant gra.s.s Betrays their bed to those who pa.s.s, At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, The winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree, Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pa.s.s, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.

Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still!

What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"

The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree."

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

PART V.

On and On