He saw wandering lights float away over dark marshes, and then disappear; these were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness: this was an emblem of himself. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy.

The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! come back!"

And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years have passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: "Oh, youth, return! Oh, give me back my early days!"

-JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

132

HORATIUS

I

Lars Porsena of Clusium
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.

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.

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 uprose the Consul,
Uprose the Fathers all;

In haste they girded up their gowns,

And hied them to the wall.

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,

Naught else can save the town."

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 Consul fixed his eye,

And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.

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.

A yell that rent the firmament
From all the town arose.

On the housetops was no woman
But spat toward him and hissed,
No child but screamed out curses,
And shook its little fist.

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?"

II

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.