The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 30

XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER.[J]

SAMUEL LOVER.--1797-1868.

When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies-- It is the Indian summer.

Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer.

And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears-- Just like the Indian summer: And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end-- Just like the Indian summer.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"--a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year--strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.--LOVER.

L. TO HELEN.[K]

JULY 7, 1839.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.--1802-1839.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,

That in so brief--so very brief a s.p.a.ce, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife,-- Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone: Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health,--bless you, My Own!

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Praed died on the 15th of July.

LI. HORATIUS.[L]

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX.

LORD MACAULAY.--1800-1859.

Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine G.o.ds he swore That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more.

By the Nine G.o.ds 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.

The hors.e.m.e.n 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; From lordly Volaterrae, where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants for G.o.dlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisae, queen of the western waves, Where ride Ma.s.silia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.

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 c.l.i.tumnus is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill; Unwatch'd along c.l.i.tumnus grazes the milk-white steer; Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere.

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 march'd to Rome.

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 turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given: "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven.

Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."

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.

For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally; And with a mighty following to join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright: From all the s.p.a.cious champaign to Rome men took their flight.

A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days.

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-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and a.s.ses laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate.

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 came with tidings of dismay.

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 storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain.

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.

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."

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 fix'd 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.

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.

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.

And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Luc.u.mo.

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.

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 s.e.xtus, that wrought the deed of shame.

But when the face of s.e.xtus 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 hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist.

But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd 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?"

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 G.o.ds, 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 s.e.xtus that wrought the deed of shame?

Hew 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 stopp'd by three.

Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?"