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Horatius - Lays of Ancient Rome

by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
There can be little doubt that among those parts of early Roman history which had a poetical origin was the legend of Horatius Cocles. We have several versions of the story, and these versions differ from each other in points of no small importance. Polybius, there is reason to believe, heard the tale recited over the remains of some Consul or Prætor descended from the old Horatian patricians; for he introduces it as a specimen of the narratives with which the Romans were in the habit of embellishing their funeral oratory. It is remarkable that, according to him, Horatius defended the bridge alone, and perished in the waters. According to the chronicles which Livy and Dionysius followed, Horatius had two companions, swam safe to shore, and was loaded with honors and rewards.
These discrepancies are easily explained. Our own literature, indeed, will furnish an exact parallel to what may have taken place at Rome. It is highly probably that the memory of the war of Porsena was preserved by compositions much resembling the two ballads which stand first in the Relics of Ancient English Poetry. In both those ballads the English, commanded by the Percy, fight with the Scots, commanded by the Douglas. In one of the ballads the Douglas is killed by a nameless English archer, and the Percy by a Scottish spearman; in the other, the Percy slays the Douglas in single combat, and is himself made prisoner. In the former, Sir Hugh Montgomery is shot through the heart by a Northumbrian bowman; in the latter he is taken and exchanged for the Percy. Yet both the ballads relate to the same event, and that event which probably took place within the memory of persons who were alive when both the ballads were made. One of the Minstrels says:—
 "Old men that knowen the grounde well yenoughe
  Call it the battell of Otterburn:
  At Otterburn began this spurne
  Upon a monnyn day.
  Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean:
  The Perse never went away."

The other poet sums up the event in the following lines:
 "Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne
  Bytwene the nyghte and the day:
  Ther the Doglas lost hys lyfe,
  And the Percy was lede away."

It is by no means unlikely that there were two old Roman lays about the defence of the bridge; and that, while the story which Livy has transmitted to us was preferred by the multitude, the other, which ascribed the whole glory to Horatius alone, may have been the favorite with the Horatian house.

The following ballad is supposed to have been made about a hundred and twenty years after the war which it celebrates, and just before the taking of Rome by the Gauls. The author seems to have been an honest citizen, proud of the military glory of his country, sick of the disputes of factions, and much given to pining after good old times which had never really existed. The allusion, however, to the partial manner in which the public lands were allotted could proceed only from a plebeian; and the allusion to the fraudulent sale of spoils marks the date of the poem, and shows that the poet shared in the general discontent with which the proceedings of Camullus, after the taking of Veii, were regarded.
The penultimate syllable of the name Porsena has been shortened in spite of the authority of Niebuhr, who pronounces, without assigning any ground for his opinion, that Martial was guilty of a decided blunder in the line,
"Hanc spectare manum Porsena non potuit."

It is not easy to understand how any modern scholar, whatever his attainments may be,—and those of Niebuhr were undoubtedly immense,—can venture to pronounce that Martial did not know the quantity of a word which he must have uttered, and heard uttered, a hundred times before he left school. Niebuhr seems also to have forgotten that Martial has fellow culprits to keep him in countenance. Horace has committed the same decided blunder; for he give us, as a pure iambic line,—
"Minacis aut Etrusca Porsenæ dextram;"

Silius Italicus has repeatedly offended in the same way, as when he says,—"Clusinum vulgus, cum, Porsena magne, jubebas." A modern writer may be content to err in such company.

Niebuhr's supposition that each of the three defenders of the bridge was the representative of one of the three patrician tribes is both ingenious and probable, and has been adopted in the following poem.
  A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX
  Lars Porsena of Closium
  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;
  From lordly Volaterræ,
  Where scowls the far-famed hold
  Piled by the hands of giants
  For godlike kings of old;
  From seagirt Populonia,
  Whose sentinels descry
  Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops
  Fringing the southern sky;
  From the proud mart of Pisæ,
  Queen of the western waves,
  Where ride Massilia's triremes
  Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
  From where sweet Clanis wanders
  Through corn and vines and flowers;
  From where Cortona lifts to heaven
  Her diadem of towers.
  Tall are the oaks whose acorns
  Drop in dark Auser's rill;
  Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
  Of the Ciminian hill;
  Beyond all streams Clitumnus
   Is to the herdsman dear;
  Best of all pools the fowler loves
  The great Volsinian mere.
  But now no stroke of woodman
  Is heard by Auser's rill;
  No hunter tracks the stag's green path
  Up the Ciminian hill;
  Unwatched along Clitumnus
  Grazes the milk-white steer;
  Unharmed the water fowl may dip
  In the Volsminian mere.
  The harvests of Arretium,
  This year, old men shall reap;
  This year, young boys in Umbro
  Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
  And in the vats of Luna,
  This year, the must shall foam
  Round the white feet of laughing girls
  Whose sires have marched to Rome.
  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.
  For all the Etruscan armies
  Were ranged beneath his eye,
  And many a banished Roman,
  And many a stout ally;
  And with a mighty following
  To join the muster came
  The Tusculan Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name.
  But by the yellow Tiber
  Was tumult and affright:
  From all the spacious champaign
  To Rome men took their flight.
  A mile around the city,
  The throng stopped up the ways;
  A fearful sight it was to see
  Through two long nights and days.
  For aged folks on crutches,
  And women great with child,
  And mothers sobbing over babes
  That clung to them and smiled,
  And sick men borne in litters
  High on the necks of slaves,
  And troops of sun-burned husbandmen
  With reaping-hooks and staves,
  And droves of mules and asses
  Laden with skins of wine,
  And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
  And endless herds of kine,
  And endless trains of wagons
  That creaked beneath the weight
  Of corn-sacks and of household goods,
  Choked every roaring gate.
  Now, from the rock 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 come
  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 stormed 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 up rose the Consul,
  Up rose 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 spake the Consul roundly:
  "The bridge must straight go down;
  For, since Janiculum is lost,
  Nought 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 Consol fixed 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.
  And plainly and more plainly,
  Above that glimmering line,
  Now might ye see the banners
  Of twelve fair cities shine;
  But the banner of proud Clusium
  Was highest of them all,
  The terror of the Umbrian,
  The terror of the Gaul.
  And plainly and more plainly
  Now might the burghers know,
  By port and vest, by horse and crest,
  Each warlike Lucumo.
  There Cilnius of Arretium
  On his fleet roan was seen;
  And Astur of the four-fold shield,
  Girt with the brand none else may wield,
  Tolumnius with the belt of gold,
  And dark Verbenna from the hold
  By reedy Thrasymene.
  Fast by the royal standard,
  O'erlooking all the war,
  Lars Porsena of Clusium
  Sat 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 when the face of Sextus
   Was seen among the foes,
  A yell that rent the firmament
  From all the town arose.
  On the house-tops was no woman
  But spat towards him and hissed,
  No child but screamed out curses,
  And shook its little fist.
  But the Consul's brow was sad,
  And the Consul's speech was low,
  And darkly looked 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,
  "And for the tender mother
  Who dandled him to rest,
  And for the wife who nurses
  His baby at her breast,
  And for the holy maidens
  Who feed the eternal flame,
  To save them from false Sextus
  That wrought the deed of shame?
  "Haul 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 strait path a thousand
  May well be stopped 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 helped the poor,
  And the poor man loved the great:
  Then lands were fairly portioned;
  Then spoils were fairly sold:
  The Romans were like brothers
  In the brave days of old.
  Now Roman is to Roman
  More hateful than a foe,
  And the Tribunes beard the high,
  And the Fathers grind the low.
  As we wax hot in faction,
  In battle we wax cold:
  Wherefore men fight not as they fought
  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 mixed 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,
  Come 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,
  Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
  Where stood the dauntless Three.
  The Three stood calm and silent,
  And looked upon the foes,
  And a great shout of laughter
  From all the vanguard rose:
  And forth three chiefs came spurring
  Before that deep array;
  To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
  And lifted high their shields, and flew
  To win the narrrow way;
  Aunus from green Tifernum,
  Lord of the Hill of Vines;
  And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
  Sicken in Ilva's mines;
  And Picus, long to Clusium
  Vassal in peace and war,
  Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
  From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
  The fortress of Nequinum lowers
  O'er the pale waves of Nar.
  Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
  Into the stream beneath;
  Herminius struck at Seius,
  And clove him to the teeth;
  At Picus brave Horatius
  Darted one fiery thrust;
  And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
  Clashed in the bloody dust.
  Then Ocnus of Falerii
  Rushed on the Roman Three;
  And Lausulus of Urgo,
  The rover of the sea;
  And Aruns of Volsinium,
  Who slew the great wild boar,
  The great wild boar that had his den
  Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,
  And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
  Along Albinia's shore.
  Herminius smote down Aruns:
  Lartius laid Ocnus low:
  Right to the heart of Lausulus
  Horatius sent a blow.
  "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate!
  No more, aghast and pale,
  From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
  The track of thy destroying bark.
  No more Campania's hinds shall fly
  To woods and caverns when they spy
  Thy thrice accursed sail."
  But now no sound of laughter
   Was heard among the foes.
  A wild and wrathful clamor
  From all the vanguard rose.
  Six spears' lengths from the entrance
  Halted that deep array,
  And for a space no man came forth
  To win the narrow way.
  But hark! the cry is Astur:
  And lo! the ranks divide;
  And the great Lord of Luna
  Comes with his stately stride.
  Upon his ample shoulders
  Clangs loud the four-fold 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 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-breadth 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.
  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 Lucomo 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 glittering 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 corpses,
  In the path the dauntless Three:
  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.
  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 frow the standards reel;
  And the victorious trumpet-peal
  Dies fitfully away.
  Yet one man for one moment
  Strode 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.
  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.
  And, like a horse unbroken
  When first he feels the rein,
  The furious river struggled hard,
  And tossed his tawny mane,
  And burst the curb and bounded,
  Rejoicing to be free,
  And whirling down, in fierce career,
  Battlement, and plank, and pier,
   Rushed headlong to the sea.
  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;
  Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
   To Sextus nought 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.
  "Oh, 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.
  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.
  Never, I ween, did swimmer,
  In such an evil case,
  Struggle through such a raging flood
  Safe to the landing place:
  But his limbs were borne up bravely
  By the brave heart within,
  And our good father Tiber
  Bare bravely up his chin.
  "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.
  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 is 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,
  How valiantly he kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.
  And still his name sounds stirring
  Unto the men of Rome,
  As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
  To charge the Volscian home;
  And wives still pray to Juno
  For boys with hearts as bold
  As his who kept the bridge so well
  In the brave days of old.
  And in the nights of winter,
  When the cold north winds blow,
  And the long howling of the wolves
  Is heard amidst the snow;
  When round the lonely cottage
  Roars loud the tempest's din,
  And the good logs of Algidus
  Roar louder yet within;
  When the oldest cask is opened,
  And the largest lamp is lit;
  When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
  And the kid turns on the spit;
  When young and old in circle
  Around the firebrands close;
  When the girls are weaving baskets,
  And the lads are shaping bows;
  When the goodman mends his armor,
  And trims his helmet's plume;
  When the goodwife'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.