Alone stood brave Horatius,
      But constant still in mind;
    Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
      And the broad flood behind. 
   “Down with him!” cried false Sextus,
      With a smile on his pale face. 
   “Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,
     “Now yield thee to our grace.”

    Round turned he, as not deigning
      Those craven ranks to see;
    Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
      To Sextus naught spake he;
    But he saw on Palatinus
      The white porch of his home;
    And he spake to the noble river
      That rolls by the towers of Rome: 

   “O Tiber!  Father Tiber! 
      To whom the Romans pray,
    A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
      Take thou in charge this day!”
    So he spake, and speaking sheathed
      The good sword by his side,
    And, with his harness on his back,
      Plunged headlong in the tide.

    No sound of joy or sorrow
      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 above 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.

    And 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 armour,
      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
      Bore bravely up his chin.

   “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.”

    And now he feels the bottom;
      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.

    They gave him of the corn land,
      That was of public right. 
    As much as two strong oxen
      Could plow from morn till night: 
    And they made a molten image,
      And set it up on high,
    And there it stands unto this day
      To witness if I lie.