Four hundred trumpets | sounded |

A peal of warlike glee, |

As that | great | host, | with measured | tread, |
And spears | advanced, | and ensigns | spread, |
Rolled | slowly | toward | the bridge's | head, |
Where stood the dauntless | Three.

To earth they sprang, their swords | they drew, |
And lifted high their shields, | and flew |

To win the narrow way.

[But the laughter of the Tuscans was soon changed to wrath, for their chiefs were quickly laid in the dust at the feet of the "dauntless Three."]

Shout the

name.

With measured

intonation. Slow.

10. 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 I

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, |

And in his hand | he shakes the brand |

Which none but he can wield.

[The proud Astur advances with a smile of contempt for the three Romans, and turns a look of scorn upon the flinching Tuscans.]

Quick time; excited action.

11. 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 thígh : |
The Tuscans | raised a joyful cry |

To see the red blood | flow.

Breathlessly. 12. 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,

10 Astur, a chieftain's name.
Divide, open to allow him to pass.
Luna, the chief town of the Tuscans.
Ample, broad.

Fourfold, having four layers of metal.
Brand, sword.

11 To the height, as high as he could.
Deftly, cleverly.

With tone of consternation.

The good sword stood a handbreadth out |

Behind the Tuscan's head!

13. 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.

[In the meantime the axes had been busily plied; and while the bridge was tottering to its fall, Lartius and Herminius regained the opposite bank in safety. Horatius remained facing the foe until the last timber had fallen, when, weighed down with armour as he was, he "plunged headlong in the tide" of the Tiber.]

Slow and quiet. 14. No sound of joy | or sorrow |

Crescendo, with rapture.

Sympathetic description.

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 beneath 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.

15. But | fiercely ran the current, |
Swollen high by months of rain : |

13 Alvernus, a high mountain in the
south of Italy.

Augurs, prophets.

14 Dumb surprise, speechless wonder.

Crest, ornament on the top of his
helmet.
Rapturous, joyous.

15 Current, stream.

Muttered between his teeth.

Nobly, in rebuke to Sextus.

And fast | his blood was flowing; |

And he was sore in paín, |
And heavy with his armour, |

And spent with changing blows: |

And oft they thought him sinking, |
But still again | he rose.

16." 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.”

With intense 17. And now he feels the bottom; |

satisfaction.

Increasing to enthusiasm.

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.

[Then follows an account of the rewards given to the hero. The minstrel thus concludes the story :-]

Spoken continuously

to the end.

18. When the good-man | mends his armour, |

And trims his helmet's plume; |

15 Spent, exhausted; tired out. Changing, exchanging.

16 Sextus, one of the Tarquins.

Stay, stoppage.

Sacked, plundered.-Quoth, says.

Lars Porsena, the Tuscan king. 17 Fathers, rulers of Rome. Gory, blood-stained.

River-gate, one of the city gates.

18 Plume, feathers.

When the good-wife's shuttle | merrily |

Goes flashing through the loom ; |

Glowing up, to a gradual and graceful finish, without letting the voice down.

With weeping | and with laughter |

Still is the story told,

How well | Horatius | kept the bridge |
In the brave days of
old.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE POEM.-This poem is a series of meditations suggested by a village churchyard. There is nothing in the poem to identify the churchyard to which it refers, but it is generally believed that Gray had in view that of Stoke Pogis, near Slough (Buckinghamshire), the place to which his mother removed after his father's death. The reflections are of a simple and homely kind, and they are expressed in exquisitely refined English. The poet's sympathies are broad as well as deep. He is mostly "mindful of the unhonoured dead." He dwells on the worth of the "rude forefathers of the hamlet" that sleep in the shade of its yew-trees, and he speculates on the greatness they might have achieved. Yet they were contented and happy, and along their obscure path they kept "the noiseless tenor of their way," without murmuring and without ambition. THE AUTHOR.-Thomas Gray (1716-1771), poet. He was Professor of Modern History at Cambridge.

Quiet

narrative in slow time.

1. The curfew | tolls the knell | of parting day,

The lowing herd | winds | slowly | o'er the lea,
The ploughman | homeward | plods his weary way, |
And leaves the world | to darkness | and to me.

2. Now | fades | the glimmering landscape | on the sight, | And all the air | a solemn stillness | holds, |

1 Curfew (French couvre-feu, cover
fire), a bell rung every night at
eight o'clock in Norman times as a
signal for putting out all fires and
lights. An evening bell is still rung
in some country churches.
Knell, stroke; sound of a funeral

bell.

Parting, departing; dying.
Lea, meadow.

Plods, trudges; walks as if tired.

2 Glimmering, faintly lighted; fading away.

All the air a solemn stillness holds, a solemn stillness holds all the air.