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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.


550 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,
560 As the trumpet-blast that cries to them

To charge the Volscian home;
And wives still


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;

550. The Comitium was that part of the Forum which served as the meeting-place of the Roman patricians.

870 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;
580 When the girls are weaving baskets,

And the lads are shaping bows;


When the goodman mends his armor,

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. 573. The Romans brought some of their firewood from the hill of Algidus, about a dozen miles to the southeast of the DR. JOHN BROWN.



It happens now and then that a man writes some one story, or sketch, or poem, which goes straight to the heart of people. Though he may produce many other things, he is known peculiarly by this one ; and it often happens that he is not a professional author, but it may be a lawyer, or a schoolmaster, a minister, or a doctor, who has written the one notable thing out of some particular experience. Thus, at any rate, it was with Dr. John Brown, a Scottish physician, who one day told the story of Rab and his Friends, and thereupon became as famous among English-speaking people as he was loved and honored in his own town of Edinburgh.

He was born September 22, 1810, and has himself told, in one of the tenderest tributes of a son to his father, something of his own childhood in the Scottish manse at Biggar, and more of that father, who was minister of the parish. Brought up in religious ways, he retained through life a simple faith, blended with an exquisite charity for men and women, children and animals, which was seen in his helpful work as a physician and surgeon, in his friendships, -for many both great and obscure people called him friend, and in his regard for dogs and other animals. “Once, when driving," writes a friend, “he suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence, and looked out eagerly at the back of the carriage. “Is it some one you know?' I asked. “No,' he said, “it's a dog I don't know.' . . . He

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