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But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide:
And the great Lord of Luna comes, with his stately stride.
Upon his am ple shoulders clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can

wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans, a smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “ The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay!
But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?”.

Then whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, and smote with all his might.

With shield and blade, Horatius right 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 cry

To see the red blood flow..

He reeled, and on Herminius he leaned one breathing-space, . Then, like a wildcat 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-breadth out behind the Tuscan's

head.

On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain, ere he wrenched out the

steel. “And see,” he cried, “the welcome, fair guests, that waits you

here! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer ?”

But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran,
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that gittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race;
For all Etruria’s noblest were round the fatal place.

But all Etruria’s noblest felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corses, in the path the dauntless Three.

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And from the ghastly entrance, where 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 bear

Lies amidst bones and blood.

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering above 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 feet they felt the timbers crack;
But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore .
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once

more,

But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream
And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops was 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 deigning those craven ranks to see:
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus naught 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.

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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.

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.

CHRYSOSTOM’S VINDICATION. T HAT can I fear? Will it be death? But you know that

VV Christ is my life, and that I shall gain by death. Will it be exile ? But the earth and its fullness is the Lord's. Will it be the loss of wealth? But we brought nothing into the world, and we carry out nothing. All the terrors of the world are contemptible in my eyes, and I smile at all its good things. Poverty I do not fear. Riches I do not sigh for. Death I do not shrink from, and life I do not desire, save only for the progress of your souls. But you know, my friends, the true cause of my fall. It is that I have not lined my house with rich tapestry. It is that I have not clothed me in robes of silk. It is that I have not flattered the effeminacy and sensuality of certain men, nor laid gold and silver at their feet. But why need I say more? Jezabel is raising her persecution, and Elias must fly. Herodias is asking her pleasure, and John must be bound in chains. The Egyptian wife tells her lie, and Joseph must be thrown into prison. “And so, if they banish me, I shall be like Elias; if they draw me into the mire, like Jeremiah ; if they plunge me into the sea,

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like the prophet Jonah ; if in the pit, like Daniel ; if they stone me, it is Stephen that I shall resemble; John the forerunner, if they cut off my head; Paul, if they beat me with stripes ; Isaiah, if they saw me asunder.

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.-H. G. BELL.

T LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, 1 I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad, green walks, where soft the foot

step falls; And o'er the antiqne dial-stones the creeping shadow passed, And all aronnd the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard-trees, In that first budding' spring of youth, when all its prospects

please; And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper

prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names held none more dear

than theirsAnd little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine, Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line : Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of

Bourbon,
And ’neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng;
And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see

The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry:
Grey Montmorenci, o'er whose head has passed a storm of years,
Strong in himself and children stands, the first among the peers;
And next the Guises, who so far Fame's steepest heights assailed,
And walked Ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have

failed

470

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might,
For before them Montmorenci's star shall pale its waning light;
And there walks she of Medicis,—that proud Italian line,–
The mother of a race of kings,—the haughty Catharine-
The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine make,
A milky-way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake.
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide,
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride!
The homage of a thousand hearts—the fond, deep love of one-
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,-
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak :
Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant

hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its

flowers ?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its

way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay, And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed, with tearful eyes, Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept; there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth: It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends, It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends, The land where her dead husband, slept the land where she had

known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a

throne. No marvel that the lady wept; it was the land of France, The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance.The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark, The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark.One gaze again, one long, last gaze,–Adieu, fair France, to thee;The breeze comes forth, she is alone on the unconscious sea.

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

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