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
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
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.
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.
MACAULAY'S Lays of Ancient Rome.
THE LAST MINSTREL,
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High plac'd in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay :
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door,
And tun'd, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had lov'd to hear.
He pass'd where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower;
The minstrel gazed with wishful eye-
No humbler resting-place was nigh;
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal-arch he pass'd,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess mark'd his weary pace,
His timid mien and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well :
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree,
In pride of power and beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb,
When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride;
And would the noble duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain?
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought e'en yet, the sooth to speak,
That if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.
The humble boon was soon obtained,
The aged minstrel audience gain'd;
But when he reach'd the hall of state
Where she with all her ladies sate,
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied:
For when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease
Which marks security to please;
And scenes long pass'd of joy and pain
Came wildering o'er his aged brain—
He tried to tune his harp in vain.
The pitying duchess prais'd its chime,
And gave him heart and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.
And then he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain
He never thought to sing again :
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man rais'd his head and smiled,
And lighten'd up his faded eye
With all a poet's ecstacy.
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory void
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And while his harp responsive rung,
The Last of Border Minstrels sung.
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