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 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 floo I

Safe to the landing-place :
But his limbs were borne up brave y

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

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 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.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves

Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage

Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus 6

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 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.

SAUL.'

BY BYRON.

Thou, whose spell can raise the dead,

Bid the prophet's form appear : “Samuel, raise thy buried head !

King, behold the phantom seer !"

Earth yawned ; he stood the centre of a cloud :
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixëd eye ;
His hand was withered, and his veins were dry ;
His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there,
Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare ;

See 1 Sam. chap. xxviii.

From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. Saul

saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

“Why is my sleep disquieted ?
Who is he that calls the dead ?
Is it thou, O king? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold :
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide :
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul !"

THE FATAL SISTERS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE NORSE TONGUE, BY GRAY.

Now the storm begins to lower,

(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darkened air.

Glittering lances are the loom

Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,

Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grisly texture grow!

(Tis of human entrails made), And the weights, that play below,

Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling chords along; Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tissue close and strong. Mista, black terrific maid,

Sangrida, and Hilda, see, Join the wayward work to aid :

'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet,

Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war)

Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,

Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading through the ensanguined field, Gondula, and Geira, spread

O’er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to slaughter give,

Ours to kill and ours to spare : Spite of danger he shall live.

(Weave the crimson web of war.) They, whom once the desert-beach

Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch

O’er the plenty of the plain.