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Extracts from Horatius.'

The following are extracts from the first of the Lays of Ancient Rome, founded on the legend of Horatius Cocles. The Lays or ballads must, however, be read continuously to be properly appreciated, for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid movement and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole.

[Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.]
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate :
'To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods,

And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame!

'Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may ;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?'
Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he :
'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.'
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he :
'I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.'

'Horatius,' quoth the Consul,

'As thou say'st, so let it be.'
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great ;
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe,

And the tribunes beard the high,

And the fathers grind the low.

As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold;

Wherefore men fight not as they fought

In the brave days of old.

[The bridge is hewn down; Lartius and Herminius escape, and Horatius is left alone.]

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind;

Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.

'Down with him!' cried false Sextus,

With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning

Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome:
'O Tiber, Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.
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.

[How Horatius was rewarded.] 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 still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home:
And wives still pray to Juno

For boys with hearts as bold

As his who kept the bridge so well
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 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.

Ivry.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are !

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France !

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

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But out spake gentle Henry: 'No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for
France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white;
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war,

Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of

the brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

W. E. AYTOUN-THEODORE MARTIN. The same style of ballad poetry, applied to incidents and characters in Scottish history, was adopted with distinguished success by PROFESSOR WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN, author of Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, 1849, and Bothwell, a tale of the days of Mary, Queen of Scots, 1856. The Lays range from the field of Flodden to the extinction of the Jacobite cause at Culloden, and are animated by a fine martial spirit, intermingled with scenes of pathos and mournful regret. The work has gone through a great number of editions. In a similar spirit of nationality, Mr Aytoun published a collected and collated edition of the old Scottish Ballads, two volumes, 1858. In satirical and humorous composition,

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both in poetry and prose, Mr Aytoun also attained celebrity. His tales and sketches in Blackwood's Magazine are marked by a vigorous hand, prone to caricature; and he is author of a clever satire -Firmilian, a Spasmodic Tragedy, by Percy T. Fones, 1854. In conjunction with his friend, MR THEODORE MARTIN, Mr Aytoun wrote The Book of Ballads, by Bon Gaultier-a series of burlesque poems and parodies contributed to different periodicals, and collected into one volume; and to the same poetical partnership we owe a happy translation of the ballads of Goethe. Mr Aytoun was a native of Edinburgh, born in 1813. Having studied at the university of Edinburgh, and afterwards in Germany, he was admitted to the Scottish bar in 1840. In 1845 he was appointed to the chair of Rhetoric and Belles-lettres in Edinburgh University, and in 1852 he was made sheriff of Orkney. His poetical talents were first displayed in a prize poem, Judith, which was eulogised by Professor Wilson, afterwards the father-in-law of the young poet. He died at Blackhills, near Elgin, August 4, 1865.-Mr Martin is a native of Edinburgh, born in 1816. He is now a parliamentary solicitor in London. Besides his poetical labours with Mr Aytoun, Mr Martin has translated Horace, Catullus, and Goethe's Faust; also the Vita Nuova of Dante; the Corregio and Aladdin of the Danish poet Ehlenschläger, and King Rene's Daughter, a Danish lyrical drama by Henrik Herts. Mr Martin was selected by Her Majesty to write the Life of the Prince Consort, the first volume of which appeared in 1874, and was highly creditable to the taste and judgment of the author. In 1851 Mr Martin was married to Miss Helen Faucit, an accomplished and popular actress.

The Burial-march of Dundee.

From the Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers.

I.

Sound the fife, and cry the slogan-
Let the pibroch shake the air
With its wild triumphant music,
Worthy of the freight we bear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland
Hear once more the battle-song
Swell within their glens and valleys
As the clansmen march along!
Never from the field of combat,
Never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried

Than we bring with us to-day;
Never since the valiant Douglas

On his dauntless bosom bore

Good King Robert's heart-the priceless-
To our dear Redeemer's shore!
Lo! we bring with us the hero-

Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor
From the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
'Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!
Is there any here will venture

To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim!

Wail ye may full well for ScotlandLet none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body

Lies the royal banner's foldSee! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See-Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for king and country, Bade us win the field, or fall!

II.

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapped in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew,
As we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us,

On his war-horse black as nightWell the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight !And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose ;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,

And we thought of good Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence-
'Soldiers! I have sworn a vow;
Ere the evening-star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness

For his country and King James !
Think upon the royal martyr-
Think of what his race endure-
Think on him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir:
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine-
Strike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they Covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honour Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee !'

III.

Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath;
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of Death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,

And the voices of the foe:
Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers
Marching to the tuck of drum;
Through the scattered wood of birches,
O'er the broken ground and heath,
Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the field beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert.
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armed men!
Like a tempest down the ridges

Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald-
Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel !
Vainly sped the withering volley

Amongst the foremost of our band-
On we poured until we met them
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.

Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcases are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us-
Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When that stubborn fight was done!

IV.

And the evening-star was shining

On Schehallion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst the battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

V.

Open wide the vaults of Athol,
Where the bones of heroes rest-

Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!

Last of Scots, and last of freemen-
Last of all that dauntless race

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Who would rather die unsullied,
Than outlive the land's disgrace!
O thou lion-hearted warrior!

Reck not of the after-time :
Honour may be deemed dishonour,
Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
Of the noble and the true,
Hands that never failed their country,
Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep!-and till the latest trumpet
Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver
Chieftain than our own Dundee !

Sonnet to Britain, by the D― of W—.

From Bon Gaultier.

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!
Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!
O Britain! O my country! words like these
Have made thy name a terror and a fear
To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks,
Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
Where the grim despot muttered Sauve qui peut!
And Ney fled darkling-silence in the ranks;
Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash

Of armies, in the centre of his troop

The soldier stands-unmovable, not rash-
Until the forces of the foeman droop;

Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,
Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

FRANCES BROWN.

This lady, blind from infancy, is a more remarkable instance of the poetical faculty existing apart, as it were, from the outer world than that of Dr Blacklock. FRANCES BROWN, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar, a village in the county Donegal, Ireland, was born in 1816. When only eighteen months old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox. She learned something from hearing her brothers and sisters reading over their tasks; her friends and relatives read to her such books as the remote village afforded, and at length she became acquainted with Scott's novels, Pope's Homer, and Byron's Childe Harold. She wrote some verses which appeared in the Irish Penny Journal, and in 1841 sent a number of small poems to the Athenæum. The editor introduced her to public notice: her pieces were greatly admired; and in 1844 she ventured on the publication of a volume, The Star of Atteghei, the Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems. Shortly afterwards, a small pension of £20 a year was settled on the poetess; and the Marquis of Lansdowne is said to have presented her with a sum of £100. In 1847 she issued a second volume, Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, and she has contributed largely to periodical works. The poetry of Miss Brown, especially her lyrical pieces, is remarkable for clear poetic feeling and diction; while 'the energy displayed, from her childhood, by this almost friendless girl, raises,' as the editor of her first volume remarked, 'at once the interest and the character of her muse.'

The Last Friends.

One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his country, after many years of exile, being asked what had induced him to revisit Ireland when all his friends were gone, answered: 'I came back to see the mountains.'

I come to my country, but not with the hope

That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow,

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For the vigour of soul, that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune, hath fled from me

now;

And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore,
Hath perished, and left but a weary regret
For the star that can rise on my midnight no more-
But the hills of my country they welcome me yet!

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still,

When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track; From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins, that fill The lands of old story, they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West,

They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved bestBut I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet!

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave; For serving the strangers through wandering and war, The isle of their memory could grant them no grave. And I, I return with the memory of years,

Whose hope rose so high, though in sorrow it set; They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears— But our mountains remember their promises yet! Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old? And where are the faces my childhood hath seen? For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold,

But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still green;

Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth,

When brothers in heart in their shadows we met; And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet!

Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now

Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow, For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand:

Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle

Efface the dark seal that oppression hath set;
Give back the lost glory again to the soil,
For the hills of my country remember it yet!
June 16, 1843.

LORD HOUGHTON.

Several volumes of graceful, meditative poetry, and records of foreign travel, were published between 1833 and 1844 by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, called to the House of Peers in 1863 as BARON HOUGHTON. These are: Memorials of a Tour in Greece, 1833; Memorials of a Residence on the Continent, 1838; Poetry for the People, 1840; Poems, Legendary and Historical, 1844; Palm Leaves, 1844. Lord Houghton was born in that enviable rank of society, the English country-gentleman. He is eldest son of the late R. P. Milnes, Esq., of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1831, in his twenty-second year, he took his degree of M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1837, he was returned to the House of Commons as representative of the borough of Pontefract, which he continued to represent till his elevation to the peerage. In parliament, Lord Houghton has been distinguished by his philanthropic labours, his efforts in support of national education, and generally his support of all questions of social amelioration and reform. In 1848 he edited the Life and Remains of John Keats; and in 1873-76 published two volumes of biographical

sketches, entitled Monographs, Personal and Social, abounding in anecdote and in interesting illustrations of English social life and literature. In 1876 the collected Poetical Works of Lord Houghton were published in two volumes.

St Mark's at Venice.

Walk in St Mark's the time the ample space
Lies in the freshness of the evening shade,
When, on each side, with gravely darkened face
The masses rise above the light arcade;
Walk down the midst with slowly tuned pace,
But gay withal, for there is high parade
Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass
Like varying groups on a magician's glass. . . .
Walk in St Mark's again some few hours after,
When a bright sleep is on each storied pile-
When fitful music and inconstant laughter
Give place to Nature's silent moonlight smile:
Now Fancy wants no faery gale to waft her

To Magian haunt, or charm-engirded isle;
All too content, in passive bliss, to see
This show divine of visible poetry.

On such a night as this impassionedly

The old Venetian sung those verses rare: 'That Venice must of needs eternal be, For Heaven had looked through the pellucid air, And cast its reflex on the crystal sea,

And Venice was the image pictured there;' I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem

As treading on an unsubstantial dream.

That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange

That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye Rests as of gems-those arches whose high range Gives its rich-broidered border to the skyThose ever-prancing steeds! My friend, whom change Of restless will has led to lands that lie Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set Above those domes an airy minaret?

The Men of Old.

I know not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still is it true, and over-true,
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness

The world has since foregone-
The daylight of contentedness

That on those faces shone !

With rights, though not too closely scanned,
Enjoyed, as far as known-

With will, by no reverse unmanned-
With pulse of even tone-
They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more

Than yesterday and yesternight
Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art

Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;

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