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.

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 armor,

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

Bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "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 shore;

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 a public right,

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

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.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

I WONDER do you feel to-day

As I have felt, since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass to stray

In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalised me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it: first it left

The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin; yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassed

Five beetles,-blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal,-and last

Everywhere on the grassy slope

I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air,-
Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life there, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting Nature have her way
While Heaven looks from its towers.

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above.
How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more— Nor yours nor mine,-nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,

See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs, In life, for good and ill.

your part, my part

No. I yearn upward-touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak-
Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so far

Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

Onward, whenever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!

Off again!

Where is the thread now?
The old trick! Only I discern-

Infinite passion and the pain of finite hearts that yearn.

ROBERT BROWNING.