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 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 out
Behind the Tuscan's head!

And the great lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus 6
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.

In the meantime the axes had been busily plied; and while the bridge was tottering to its fall, Lartius and Herminius regained the opposite bank in safety. Horatius remained facing the foe until the last timber had fallen, when, weighed down with armour as he was, he "plunged headlong in the tide."

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 beneath 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 armour,

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 day

We should have 'sacked the town!"--
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena,'
"And bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms
Was 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.

Then follows an account of the rewards which a grateful people bestowed upon the hero. The minstrel thus concludes the legend:

When the good-man mends his armour,

And trims his helmet's plume;

When the good-wife'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.

au'gurs, sooth'sayers. bestowed', conferred'. clam'our, shout'ing. compiled', composed'. concludes, clos'es; ends. contempt, disdain', continua'tion, sequel. crash'ing, shattering. daunt'less, courageous.

deft'ly, clev'erly.

des potism, tyr'anny.
divide, open up.
flinch'ing, yield'ing.
gal'lant, hero'ic.
meas'ured, reg'ular.
overwhelm'ing, overpow-
ering.
rap'turous, joy'ous.

reconstruct'ing, rebuild'

ing.

record ́ed, narrat'ed.
rehearsed', recit'ed.
sacked, pill'aged.
strait, narrow.
sur'ges, waves.
van'guard, front.
wrath'ful, an'gry.

Rome; and he had gone to Rome as an adventurer in the reign of Añ'cus Mar'tius, in whose favour he obtained a high place. Left by that king guardian to his sons, Tarquin set them aside and ascended the throne himself.

Roman Consul.-After the abolition of monarchy, Rome was ruled by two Consuls (that is, Colleagues), elected annually. 'Ram'nian.... Ti'tian.-The Patricians, or true Roman citizens, consisted of three tribes,-the Ram'nes, a Latin colony said to have been founded by Romulus, on the Palatine Hill; the Trties, or Sabine settlers, on the Quiri'nal Hill; and the Lu'ceres, or Etruscans, on the Calian Hill

charm'ed, bewitched'.

Many a flute's low swell
On thy soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,

A 'charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud 'fanes above
Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful 'mien ;

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

FELICIA HEMANS. (8)

On thy seven hills of yore.- Rome | royal colour of the ancients, especially the was built on seven hills, and is therefore called by poets The seven-hilled city." At the time of its greatest glory, the walls of Rome were nearly twenty miles in circumference. Of yore means formerly; in time long past.

Purpling the street.- Purple was the

famous and costly Tyrian purple. In imperial Rome it was the emblem of sov. ereign power, and would consequently predominate in a Roman triumph, when leaders and sceptred men" were led in procession behind the chariot of the conqueror.

REGULUS BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE.

[IN the year 263 before Christ the First Punic War' began; and, after it had 'continued eight years with varied success, the Romans sent the Consul Regulus, at the head of a large army, to carry the war into Africa. On the passage across the Mediterranean, the Carthaginian fleet, bearing not less than one hundred and fifty thousand men, was met and defeated; but in the following year, in a battle on land, the Romans were defeated with great loss, and Regulus himself, being taken prisoner, was thrown into a dungeon, Five years later, the Carthaginians were in turn defeated in Sicily, with a loss of twenty thousand men, and the 'capture of more than a hundred of their elephants, which they had trained to fight in the ranks.

It was then that the Carthaginians sent an embassy to Rome with proposals of peace. Regulus was taken from his dungeon to accompany the embassy, the Carthaginians trusting that, weary of his long 'captivity, he would urge the Senate to accept the proffered terms; but the 'inflexible Roman persuaded the Senate to reject the proposals and continue the war, assuring his countrymen that the resources of Carthage were nearly exhausted. Bound by his oath to return if peace were not concluded, he volun

tarily went back, in spite of the prayers and entreaties of his friends, to meet the fate which awaited him. It is generally stated that after his return to Carthage he was tortured to death by the 'exasperated Carthaginians. Thus he spoke to the Senate :-]

Urge me no more; your prayers are vain,

And even the tears ye shed:
When I can lead to Rome again
The bands that once I led;
When I can raise your legions slain
On 'swarthy Libya's fatal plain,
To vengeance from the dead,
Then will I seek once more a home,
And lift a freeman's voice in Rome!

Accursed moment! when I woke
From faintness all but death,
And felt the coward conqueror's yoke
Like venomed serpent's wreath
Round every limb!-if lip and eye
Betrayed no sign of agony,

Inly I cursed my breath:

Wherefore, of all that fought, was I
The only wretch that could not die?

To darkness and to chains consigned,
The captive's fighting doom,

I recked not ;-could they chain the mind,
Or plunge the soul in gloom?

And there they left me, dark and lone,
Till darkness had familiar grown;

Then from that living tomb

They led me forth, I thought, to die;

Oh! in that thought was ecstasy!

But no! kind Heaven had yet in store
For me, a conquered slave,

A joy I thought to feel no more,

Or feel but in the grave.

They deemed, 'perchance, my haughtier mood
Was quelled by chains and solitude;

That he who once was brave-
Was I not brave?-had now become
Estranged from honour, as from Rome.

They bade me to my country bear

The offers these have borne;

They would have trained my lips to swear
Which never yet have sworn.