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, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering 'Come back, come back, Horatius ! ' Back darted Spurius Lartius; And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream; And a long shout of triumph 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 But he saw on Palatinus1 The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. 'Oh, 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. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain : 1 Palatinus, one of the hills of Rome, And fast his blood was flowing : And spent with changing blows: And now he feels the bottom ; Now on dry earth he stands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, When the good man mends his armour, Goes flashing 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. Algidus, a mountain twelve miles from Rome. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. (BURNS.) THOU lingering star! with lessening ray. My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget Can I forget the hallowed grove Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace : Ah, little thought we 'twas our last. Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptured scene. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? NOTE.-Mary Campbell, or Highland Mary, was engaged to be married to Burns. Previous to her paying a visit to her friends in Argyleshire the poet met her on the banks of the Ayr. This was their last interview. On her way back to Ayrshire she took ill and died at Greenock. THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. (JAMES SMITH.) James Smith was born in London in 1775, and died in 1839. He wrote poems for the monthly magazines in conjunction with his brother Horace. In 1812 they published a volume of poems entitled 'The Rejected Addresses,' containing imitations of Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, &c. This is their most popular work. WILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one night As a soldier lay stretched in his cell, And anon, 'mid the darkness, the moon's silver light Naught could she reveal but a man true as steel, And the glance of his eye might the grim king defy, But in rage he had struck a well-merited blow And his fate soon was sealed, for alas! honest Joe Oh, sad was the thought to a man that had fought |