Lays of Ancient Rome

Castilian literature will furnish us with another parallel case. Mariana, the classical historian of Spain, tells the story of the ill-starred marriage which the King Don Alonso brought about between the heirs of Carrion and the two daughters of the Cid. The Cid bestowed a princely dower on the sons-in-law. But the young men were base and proud, cowardly and cruel. They were tried in danger, and found wanting. They fled before the Moors, and once, when a lion broke out of his den, they ran and crouched in an unseemly hiding-place. They knew that they were despised, and took counsel how they might be avenged. They parted from their father-in-law with many signs of love, and set forth on a journey with Doña Elvira and Doña Sol. In a solitary place the bridegrooms seized their brides, stripped them, scourged them, and departed, leaving them for dead. But one of the House of Bivar, suspecting foul play, had followed the travellers in disguise. The ladies were brought back safe to the house of their father. Complaint was made to the king. It was adjudged by the Cortes that the dower given by the Cid should be returned, and that the heirs of Carrion together with one of their kindred should do battle against three knights of the party of the Cid. The guilty youths would have declined the combat; but all their shifts were in vain. They were vanquished in the lists, and forever disgraced, while their injured wives were sought in marriage by great princes.

Some Spanish writers have labored to show, by an examination of dates and circumstances, that this story is untrue. Such confutation was surely not needed; for the narrative is on the face of it a romance. How it found its way into Mariana's history is quite clear. He acknowledges his obligations to the ancient chronicles; and had doubtless before him the Cronica del famoso Cavallero Cid Ruy Diez Campeador, which had been printed as early as the year 1552. He little suspected that all the most striking passages in this chronicle were copied from a poem of the twelfth century,—a poem of which the language and versification had long been obsolete, but which glowed with no common portion of the fire of the Iliad. Yet such is the fact. More than a century and a half after the death of Mariana, this venerable ballad, of which one imperfect copy on parchment, four hundred years old, had been preserved at Bivar, was for the first time printed. Then it was found that every interesting circumstance of the story of the heirs of Carrion was derived by the eloquent Jesuit from a song of which he had never heard, and which was composed by a minstrel whose very name had been long forgotten.

Such, or nearly such, appears to have been the process by which the lost ballad-poetry of Rome was transformed into history. To reverse that process, to transform some portions of early Roman history back into the poetry out of which they were made, is the object of this work.

In the following poems the author speaks, not in his own person, but in the persons of ancient minstrels who know only what Roman citizen, born three or four hundred years before the Christian era, may be supposed to have known, and who are in no wise above the passions and prejudices of their age and nation. To these imaginary poets must be ascribed some blunders which are so obvious that is unnecessary to point them out. The real blunder would have been to represent these old poets as deeply versed in general history, and studious of chronological accuracy. To them must also be attributed the illiberal sneers at the Greeks, the furious party spirit, the contempt for the arts of peace, the love of war for its own sake, the ungenerous exultation over the vanquished, which the reader will sometimes observe. To portray a Roman of the age of Camillus or Curius as superior to national antipathies, as mourning over the devastation and slaughter by which empire and triumphs were to be won, as looking on human suffering with the sympathy of Howard, or as treating conquered enemies with the delicacy of the Black Prince, would be to violate all dramatic propriety. The old Romans had some great virtues, fortitude, temperance, veracity, spirit to resist oppression, respect for legitimate authority, fidelity in the observing of contracts, disinterestedness, ardent patriotism; but Christian charity and chivalrous generosity were alike unknown to them.

It would have been obviously improper to mimic the manner of any particular age or country. Something has been borrowed, however, from our own old ballads, and more from Sir Walter Scott, the great restorer of our ballad-poetry. To the Iliad still greater obligations are due; and those obligations have been contracted with the less hesitation, because there is reason to believe that some of the old Latin minstrels really had recourse to that inexhaustible store of poetical images.

It would have been easy to swell this little volume to a very considerable bulk, by appending notes filled with quotations; but to a learned reader such notes are not necessary; for an unlearned reader they would have little interest; and the judgment passed both by the learned and by the unlearned on a work of the imagination will always depend much more on the general character and spirit of such a work than on minute details.

Horatius

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.

                                  Horatius     A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLXI     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.II     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.III     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;IV     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;V     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.VI     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.VII     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.VIII     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.IX     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.X     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."XI     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.XII     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.XIII     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.XIV     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,XV     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.XVI     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.XVII     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.XVIII     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.XIX     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."XX     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.XXI     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.XXII     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.XXIII     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.XXIV     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.XXV     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.XXVI     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?"XXVII     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,XXVIII     "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?XXIX     "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?"XXX     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."XXXI     "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.XXXII     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.XXXIII     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.XXXIV     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.XXXV     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.XXXVI     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;XXXVII     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.XXXVIII     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.XXXIX     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.XL     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."XLI     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.XLII     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.XLIII     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?"XLIV     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.XLV     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.XLVI     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.XLVII     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?"XLVIII     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.XLIX     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.L     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.LI     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."LII     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.LIII     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!"LIV     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.LV     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.LVI     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.LVII     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."LVIII     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.LVIX     "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.LX     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.LXI     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.LXII     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.LXIII     "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."LXIV     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.LXV     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.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.