LXVI.

    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.

    LXVII.

    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.

    LXVIII.

    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;

    LXIX.

    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;

    LXX.

    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.

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 1:  Lord Macaulay’s ballad should be known by heart by every schoolboy.  It is the finest of the famous “Lays of Ancient Rome.”]

A Bit of Brightness.

BY MARY JOANNA PORTER.

It not only rained, but it poured; so the brightness was certainly not in the sky.  It was Sunday, too, and that fact, so Phoebe thought, added to the gloominess of the storm.  For Phoebe had left behind her the years in which she had been young and strong, and in which she had no need to regard the weather.  Now if she went out in the rain she was sure to suffer afterward with rheumatism, so, of course, a day like this made her a prisoner within doors.  There she had not very much to occupy her.  She and her husband, Gardener Jim, lived so simply that it was a small matter to prepare and clear away their meals, and, that being attended to, what was there for her to do?

Phoebe had never been much of a scholar, and reading even the coarse-print Bible, seemed to try her eyes.  Knitting on Sunday was not to be thought of, and there was nobody passing by to be watched and criticised.  Altogether Phoebe considered it a very dreary day.

As for Gardener Jim, he had his pipe to comfort him.  All the same he heaved a sigh now and then, as if to say, “O dear!  I wish things were not quite so dull.”