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 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.

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
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 good man mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the good wife'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.

Macaulay.

The Song of the Shirt.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,
Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the " Song of the Shirt!"

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread — and rags;

That shattered roof- and this naked floor

A table a broken chair

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work

From weary chime to chime; Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime! Band and gusset and seam

Seam and gusset and band,

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand!

"Work -work-work

In the dull December light;

And work-work-work

When the weather is warm and bright;

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet;

With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet;

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or hope,

But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread;
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

Athena, the Queen of the Air.

Hood.

We will take the bird first. It is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it; is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself.

Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the cloud closed into the perfect form of the bird's wings, so the wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into rapture of acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose.

Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air: on these the gold of the cloud that cannot be gathered by any covetousness; the rubies of the clouds, that are not the price of Athena, but are Athena ;] the vermilion of the cloud-bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky — all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven by Athena herself into films and threads of plume; with wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the