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, Struggle through such a raging flood 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; And now with shouts and clapping, They gave him of the corn-land, 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, Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: How valiantly he kept the bridge 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, Help me to hold it: first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed 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 Such life there, through such lengths of hours, Such primal naked forms of flowers, How say you? Let us, O my dove, 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, Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose 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? Infinite passion and the pain of finite hearts that yearn. ROBERT BROWNING. |