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Rome shouted, and e'en 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 his 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;

he stands;

now on dry earth



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


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The woods with living airs
How softly fann'd,
Light airs from where the deep,
All down the sand,
Is breathing in his sleep,
Heard by the land.
O follow, leaping blood,
The season's lure !
O heart, look down and up
Serene, secure.
Warm as the crocus cup,
Like snowdrops, pure !
Past, Future, glimpse and fade
Thro’ some slight spell,
A gleam from yonder vale,
Some far blue fell,
And sympathies, how frail,
In sound and smell.




Till at thy chuckled note,
Thou twinkling bird,
The fairy fancies range,
And, lightly stirr'd,
Ring little bells of change
From word to word.


For now the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,

And thaws the cold, and fills
The flower with dew;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The poets too.

The Bugle Song


The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.


O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going !
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.


O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.


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