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him are shades that set off his good qualities. Misfortune cuts down the little vanities that, in prosperous times, serve as so many spots in his virtues; and gives a tone of humility that makes his worth more amiable. His spectators, who enjoy a happier lot, are less prone to detract from it, through envy, and are more disposed, by compassion, to give him the credit he deserves, and perhaps even to magnify it.

I speak not of Andre's conduct in this affair as a philosopher, but as a man of the world. The authorized maxims and practices of war are the satires of human nature. They countenance almost every species of seduction as well as violence; and the general who can make most traitors in the army of his adversary, is frequently most applauded. On this scale we acquit Andre; while we could not but condemn him, if we were to examine his conduct by the sober rules of philosophy and moral rectitude. It is, however, a blemish on his fame, that he once intended to prostitute a flag: about this, a man of nice honor ought to have had a scruple; but the temptation was great; let his misfortunes cast a veil over his error.

HORATIUS, A LAY OF ANCIENT ROJE.—Macaulay.

Lars Porsena of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin

Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,

And named a trysting day.
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west, and south and north,

To summon his array.

East and west, and south and north

The messengers ride fast,
And tower, and town, and cottage,

Have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium

Is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen

Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place;

From many a fruitful plain;

From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,
Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest

Of purple Apennine.
There be thirty chosen prophets,

The wisest of the land,
Who alway by Lars Porsena

Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the thirty

Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white

By mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty

Have their glad answer given: “Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;

Go, forth, beloved of heaven;
Go, and return in glory

To Clusium's royal dome;
And hang round Nurscia’s altars

The golden shields of Rome.”
And now hath every city

Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,

The horse are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array,
A proud man was Lars Porsena

Upon the trysting day.
Now, from the rock of Tarpeian,

Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages

Red in the midnight sky.
The fathers of the city,

They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came

With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward

Have spread the Tuscan bands:
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote,

In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia

Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum,

And the stout guards are slain.
I wis in all the senate,

There was no heart so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,

When that ill news was told.

Forthwith uprose the consul,

Uprose the Fathers all ;
In haste they girded up their gowns,

And hied them to the wall.

They held a council standing

Before the River-gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,

For musing or debate.
Out spoke the consul roundly :

“The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost,

Naught else can save the town."

Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with haste and fear;
"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul;

Lars Porsena is here."
On the low hills to westward

The consul fix'd his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust

Rise fast along the sky.

And nearer fast and nearer

Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,

The trampling, and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly

Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,

The long array of spears.
Fast by the royal standard,

O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium

Sate in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,

Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,

That wrought the deed of shame. But the consul's brow was sad

And the consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us

Before 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 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. "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 straight path a thousand

May well be stopp'd 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 sayest, 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 help'd the poor,

And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portion'd;

Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers

In the brave days of old. Now while the three were tightening

Their harness on their backs,
The consul was the foremost man

To take in hand an axe;
And Fathers mix'd with commons

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,

And loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,

Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright

Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded

A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolld slowly towards the bridge's head,

Where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent ·

And look'd upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring

Before that mighty mass;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew

To win the narrow pass.

And 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 pass’d, beneath their feet

They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turn'd their faces,

And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have cross'd once more.

But with a crash like thunder

Fell every loosen'd 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 splash'd the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken

Wnen first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard,

And toss'd his tawny mane;

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