380

385

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 hand-breath out
Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest
The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,

Gaze on the blasted head.

[Horatius defies the enemy, but his challenge meets no response from their daunted ranks.]

415

420

425

430

435

440

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 fiece old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack:
But those behind cried "Forward!"
And those before cried "Back!"
And backward now and forward
Wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of steel,
To and fro the standards reel;
And the victorious trumpet-peal
Dies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one moment
Stood 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 way

Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
The bravest Tuscans lay.

[Meanwhile the bridge is falling. Horatius' companions gain the other side, but he is too late, falls all wounded into the stream, yet after a stout struggle, reaches land amid the plaudits of the throng.]

445

But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied;

And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.

[The Singer tells what Rome did to reward the hero and to commemorate his prowess; and how the story of Horatius is an undying favorite with young and old.]

545

550

555

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,