“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?

   “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 straight path a thousand
      May well be stopped by three. 
    Now who will stand on either hand,
      And keep the bridge with me?”

    Then out spake Spurius Lartius—­
      A Ramnian proud was he—­
    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.”

   “Horatius,” quoth the Consul,
     “As thou say’st, 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.

    Now while the Three were tightening
      Their harness on their backs,
    The Consul was the foremost man
      To take in hand an ax;
    And Fathers mixed with Commons
      Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
    And smote upon the planks above,
      And loosed the props below. 
    Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
      Right glorious to behold,
    Came 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 toward the bridge’s head,
      Where stood the dauntless Three.

    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 narrow way;

    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.

    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.