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.

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.

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10

15

"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.

Consul: the chief magistrate of Rome. Janic'ulum: a high hill west of the Tiber, commanding the city of Rome. the gate: Rome was a walled city with numerous gates. This was the so-called River Gate. — strait: narrow. Horatius proposed to stand at the farther end of the bridge while it was being hewn down. Ram'nian: one of the three original tribes of Rome; hence a patrician or aristocrat. Ti'tian: another of the three tribes. Horatius was a representative of the third. This battle is supposed to have taken place about 500 B.C., or more than two hundred and fifty years after the founding of the city.the Fathers: senators or "city fathers." Sex'tus: Tarquin's son.— -Lars Por ́sena: the chief of the king's helpers; a king in his own right. Palati'nus: one of the seven hills of Rome. ranks of Tus'cany: these were under the leadership of Porsena.

THE RHODORA

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

On being asked, Whence is the flower?

RALPH WALDO EMERSON, born in Boston in 1803, was a famous lecturer and writer. For the greater part of his life his home was in Concord, Mass., where he died in 1882. Emerson taught the world many lessons; one of them, which had been put into words by Wordsworth, was that plain living and high thinking go well together.

NOTE. The rhodora is a low shrub with rose-pink flowers, found in early spring in New England woods. It is similar to the azalea.

In May, when sea winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

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10

15

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !
I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.

ANEMONE

EDITH M. THOMAS

EDITH M. THOMAS is an American poet whose work has strength, delicacy, and charm.

"Thou faintly blushing, dawn-like bloom
That springest on the April path,
Set round with shivering, leafy gloom
'Mong thy companions frail and rath,
Why spurnest thou the golden sun,

Whom all with still delight receive?
Some unknown love thy heart hath won,
And whispers thee at morn and eve!
How may this be, how may this be,
O rare Anemone?"

"The wind my sunshine is; the wind,
That many a trembling flower affrays,
Alone my sweetness can unbind,

Alone my drooping eye upraise.

And when my thread of life shall break,
And when I cast my raiment white,
Me gently will the rough wind take
And bear along his boundless flight.
He calleth me, Be free, be free,

My own Anemone !""

anem'one: wind-flower. — rath: early. -- affrays: frightens.