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 amid 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 armour,
      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.

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

 THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

“The Planting of the Apple-Tree” has become a favourite for “Arbour
 Day” exercises.  The planting of trees as against their destruction is a vital point in our political and national welfare.  William Cullen
 Bryant (1794-1878).

      Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
    Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
    Wide let its hollow bed be made;
    There gently lay the roots, and there
    Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
      And press it o’er them tenderly,
    As round the sleeping infant’s feet
    We softly fold the cradle sheet;
      So plant we the apple-tree.

      What plant we in this apple-tree? 
    Buds, which the breath of summer days
    Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
    Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
    Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;
      We plant, upon the sunny lea,
    A shadow for the noontide hour,
    A shelter from the summer shower,
      When we plant the apple-tree.

      What plant we in this apple-tree? 
    Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,
    To load the May wind’s restless wings,
    When, from the orchard row, he pours
    Its fragrance through our open doors;
      A world of blossoms for the bee,
    Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,
    For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
      We plant with the apple-tree.