Thomas Babington Macaulay.
Tarquin the Proud was the seventh and last king of Rome. Such were his acts of tyranny, and such the crimes of his son, “the false Sextus,” that the people rose in rebellion, and, in the year 509 B.C., drove him and his family away from Rome and declared that they would have no more kings. The Tarquins took refuge among the Etruscans, whose country bordered Rome on the north. They made a treaty of friendship with Porsena, the king of Clusium, and induced him to raise a large army for the purpose of forcing the Romans to allow them to return to power. A battle was fought, and the Romans being defeated were obliged to flee across the wooden bridge which spanned the Tiber at Rome. To prevent Porsena from entering the city, the Roman Consul ordered that the bridge should be destroyed.
The story of the manner in which this was done is told by Lord Macaulay in his “Lays of Ancient Rome,” a collection of heroic ballads relating to the times of the kings and the early consuls. The author speaks, not in his own person, but in the person of an ancient minstrel who is supposed to have lived about one hundred years after the event, and who therefore knew only what a Roman citizen of that time could have known.
But the Consul’s brow was sad,And the Consul’s speech was low,And darkly looked he at the wall,And darkly at the foe.”Their van will be upon usBefore the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge,What hope to save the town?”
Then out spake brave Horatius,The captain of the gate:”To every man upon this EarthDeath cometh soon or late;And how can man die betterThan facing fearful odds,For the ashes of his fathers,And the temples of his gods?
“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 thousandMay 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 arrayForth went the dauntless Three.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,Right glorious to behold,Came flashing back the noonday light,Rank behind rank, like surges brightOf a broad sea of gold.Four hundred trumpets soundedA peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread,And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,And looked upon the foes,And a great shout of laughterFrom all the vanguard rose.And forth three chiefs came spurringBefore that deep array;To earth they sprang, their swords they drewAnd lifted high their shields, and flewTo win the narrow way.
Annus from green Tifernum,Lord of the Hill of Vines;And Seius, whose eight hundred slavesSicken in Ilva’s mines;And Picus, long to ClusiumVassal in peace and war,Who led to fight his Umbrian powersFrom that gray crag where, girt with towers,The fortress of Nequinum lowersO’er the pale waves of Nar.
Stout Lartius hurled down AnnusInto the stream beneath:Herminius struck at Seius,And clove him to the teeth:At Picus brave HoratiusDarted one fiery thrust;And the proud Umbrian’s gilded armsClashed in the bloody dust.
And now no sound of laughterWas heard among the foes.A wild and wrathful clamorFrom all the vanguard rose.Six spears’ length from the entranceHalted that mighty mass,And for a space no man came forthTo win the narrow pass.
But hark! the cry is Astur:And lo! the ranks divide;And the great Lord of LunaComes with his stately stride.Upon his ample shouldersClangs loud the fourfold shield,And in his hand he shakes the brandWhich none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold RomansA smile serene and high;He eyed the flinching Tuscans,And scorn was in his eye.Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litterStand savagely at bay:But will ye dare to follow,If Astur clears the way?”
Then whirling up his broadswordWith both hands to the height,He rushed against Horatius,And smote with all his might.With shield and blade HoratiusRight deftly turned the blow.The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:The Tuscans raised a joyful cryTo see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on HerminiusHe leaned one breathing space;Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,Sprang right at Astur’s face.Through teeth and skull and helmet,So fierce a thrust he sped,The good sword stood a handbreadth outBehind the Tuscan’s head!
And the great Lord of LunaFell at that deadly stroke,As falls on Mount AlvernusA thunder-smitten oak.Far o’er the crashing forestThe giant arms lie spread;And the pale augurs, muttering low,Gaze on the blasted head.
Then all Etruria’s noblestFelt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses,In the path the dauntless Three:And, from the ghastly entranceWhere those bold Romans stood,All shrank, like boys who unaware,Ranging the woods to start a hare,Come to the mouth of the dark lair,Where, growling low, a fierce old bearLies amidst bones and blood.
Yet one man for one momentStood out before the crowd;Well known was he to all the Three,And they gave him greeting loud:”Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!Now welcome to thy home!Why dost thou stay and turn away?Here lies the road to Rome.”
Thrice looked he at the city;Thrice looked he at the dead;And thrice came on in fury,And thrice turned back in dread:And, white with fear and hatred,Scowled at the narrow wayWhere, wallowing in a pool of blood,The bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile ax and leverHave manfully been plied,And now the bridge hangs totteringAbove the boiling tide.”Come back, come back, Horatius!”Loud cried the Fathers all.”Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius!Back, ere the ruin fall!”
Back darted Spurius Lartius;Herminius darted back;And, as they passed, beneath their feetThey felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces,And on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone,They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunderFell every loosened beam,And, like a dam, the mighty wreckLay right athwart the stream:And a long shout of triumphRose from the walls of Rome,As to the highest turret topsWas splashed the yellow-foam.
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 deigningThose craven ranks to see;Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,To Sextus naught spake he;But he saw on PalatinusThe white porch of his home;And he spake to the noble riverThat rolls by the tower 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 sheathedThe good sword by his side,And with his harness on his back,Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrowWas 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 surgesThey saw his crest appear,All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,And even the ranks of TuscanyCould 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.
”Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus,”Will not the villain drown?But for this stay, ere close of dayWe should have sacked the town!”—”Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena,”And bring him safe to shore;For such a gallant feat of armsWas never seen before.”
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 oxenCould plow from morn till night;And they made a molten image,And set it up on high,And there it stands unto this dayTo witness if I lie.
