Moscow Clad in Snow (1908)

Black and White Footage Accompanied by

In the Steppes of Central Asia

an orchestral tone poem by

Alexander Borodin (1833-1887)

A Short Elegant Documentary

______ WE GROW ACCUSTOMED to the DARK ______

If I had the right –– or the temerity –– to give this poem a name, I would call it “To Those Left Behind.” Emily Dickinson never gave titles to her poems, they are always identified by simply the first line.

We think often of the brave men horribly killed in battle, but too little attention has been paid –– I feel –– to the widows and orphans, mothers, fathers, younger siblings and close friends forced to suffer the pain of losing a loved one, a helpmate, a guide, and a companion.

After all, for the dead it is over –– their suffering, one would hope, is at an end. Those left behind, however, must somehow carry on and find find new purpose in living. This poem, I feel, addresses their situation eloquently.

We grow accustomed to the Dark ––

When Light is put away ––

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Good bye ––

A Moment –– We uncertain step

For newness of the night ––

Then –– fit our Vision to the Dark –– 

And meet the Road –– erect –– 

And so of larger –– Darknesses ––

Those Evenings of the Brain ––

When not a Moon disclose a sign ––

Or Star –– come out –– within ––

The Bravest –– grope a little ––

And sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead ––

But as they learn to see ––

Either the Darkness alters ––

Or something in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight ––

And Life steps almost straight.

~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

BUSYBODIES

The pressure others to reform is great.

Whoever won't conform inspires hate.

An Ethos prevalent demands adherence,

Or at least be lent a feigned sincere appearance.

No one will tolerate what he despises,

So, he'll berate who otherwise advises.

The Bowels of Belief is where we live

Where challenge never has Relief to give.

Parochialism jails, and then it smothers

Conformity impales, then kills all others.

Most people fail to see this work all ways,

And so the Blight will kill till end of days.

~ § ~

OKAY, KIDS, LET’S TAKE a WHACK or TWO or TEN at THESE HEADLINES

Dramatic scene of a "calving" glacier

PAPER: 'GLOBAL WARMING' BIGGEST SCIENCE SCANDAL EVER... 

Official records systematically 'adjusted' to show heating...

Meteorologist: 'In the business world, people go to jail for such manipulations of data'...

Satellite photo showing Great Lakes frozen solid

SO WHICH IS IT –– BIG MELT? –– or DEEP FREEZE?

"The Vortex of the Waltz" - Vladimir Purveninsky (né 1957)

Noble and Sentimental Waltzes (1911)

by

Maurice Ravel

performed by pianist

Jean-Efflam Bavouzet

The "Valses nobles et sentimentales," a suite of waltzes composed by Maurice Ravel in 1911. The piano version was published first, and an orchestral version was published a year later. The suite contains a unique blend of Impressionist and Modernist music, which is especially evident in the orchestral version.

Ravel was intrigued by the waltz. By 1906 he had started composing what later would become La valse, in which he tried to epitomize everything this popular genre encompassed. In 1911, prior to the 1919 publication of La valse, he published the piano version of his suite of eight Valses nobles et sentimentales. 

The work was first performed on May 8, 1911 by Louis Aubert, to whom the work is dedicated, at a performance of new works where the composers were not identified. It was sponsored by the Société Musicale Indépendante, to promote the works of more adventurous composers, without "burdening" critics with the attached labels of authorship. This was in theory supposed to encourage the critics to evaluate what they actually heard rather than simply judging the piece by the name of the composer. 

The anonymous work generated a disturbing chorus of boos and catcalls. Many were unnerved by the acerbic harmonic palette that he employed. Some even thought the piece was a parody. When the votes were tallied, the nominated composers included Erik Satie, Charles Koechlin, Vincent d'Indy and even Zoltán Kodály, but "a minute majority," Ravel recalled, "ascribed the paternity of the Valses to me.”

1. Modéré 2. Assez lent 3. Modéré 4. Assez animé 5. Presque lent 6. Assez vif 7. Moins vif 8. Epilogue: lent 

Pianist: Jean-Efflam Bavouzet

Does Anyone Really Care 

About the Brian Williams Kerfuffle?

It's hardly surprising given what conservatives have known for decades about the true nature of the enemedia.

Aside from the fun of finding a good excuse to indulge in an orgy of Schadenfreude, what possible benefit could there be from dwelling for days on anything to trivial and pathetic? 

What is your opinion of 

NET NEUTRALITY?

FCC Chairmen, Tom Wheeler, a strong supporter

Should congress attempt to regulate the internet?

If so, what benefits might such regulation have to offer? 

What negative effects 
might ensue?

Details available at the following link:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/news/net-neutrality/

 http://legalinsurrection.com/2013/01/forbes-is-a-case-study-on-how-conservatives-lose-institutions/

Forbes Magazine is a Case Study on How Conservatives Lose Institutions

by William A. Jacobson    Wednesday, January 23, 2013 

The minnow eats the whale, again

I’ve noticed, but not commented on, how the only time I go to Forbes.com anymore is to read a liberal attack on conservatives.

I’ve wondered, has Forbes changed?  Yes it has.

We lose institutions by allowing the minnows to eat the whale.

It happened to my alma mater, Hamilton College, which acquired the liberal Kirkland College across the street in the late 1970s, and then allowed the leftist Kirkland faculty to take over the school. Hamilton now is so unhinged that it would not allow The Alexander Hamilton Institute for the Study of Western Civilization to locate on campus.  It’s a story told at campuses across the country.

The same thing apparently has happened at Forbes, once a bastion of free market capitalism. It acquired the far left True/Slant, and then appointed the founder of True/Slant to a key position which has resulted in Forbes — at least on its highly trafficked website – becoming a vehicle to attack the right.

Robert Stacy McCain, writing at The American Spectator, has the details:

Over the weekend, professional golfer Phil Mickelson complained about tax increases (including state income taxes in California) that he said had pushed his marginal rate to 63 percent: “I’ve got to make some decisions on what to do.” That incited a scolding from Syracuse Universtiy professor Len Burman, who said Mickelson should “stop whining” because he was so “lucky” to be one of the world’s highest-earning athletes.

Well, just another cranky liberal academic, eh? We are not surprised to learn that Burman served as a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Treasury in the Clinton administration, nor are we surprised that Burman founded the Tax Policy Center at the Brookings Institution, a liberal think-tank. What is perhaps surprising is that Burman published his attack on Mickelson’s “whining” at Forbes.

Forbes was once a leading advocate of free-market economic policy and has published such famed conservative writers as P.J. O’Rourke and Peter Brimelow. The magazine’s publisher Steve Forbes sought the Republican presidential nomination in 1996 and 2000 on a platform advocating a flat tax. His father, the late Malcolm Forbes, proudly named his private jet the “Capitalist Tool.”

Yet in recent years, the online version of Forbes has become increasingly notorious as a hive of strident left-wing opinion. Forbes publishes environmentalist blogger Steve Zwick, who has waged a one-man jihad against the free-market Heartland Institute for its criticism of climate policy. Last February, Zwick used his Forbes blog to promote a hoax in which a fake document purported to show Heartland’s “secret strategy.” Forbes also publishes Rick Ungar, who became notorious in 2009 for a column with the headline “Send the Body to Glenn Beck,” blaming the talk-radio host for the alleged lynching of a Census worker (who, as it turned out, had committed suicide).

What happened to Forbes? 

Two words: Lewis Dvorkin.

A former AOL executive, Dvorkin got funding from Forbes in 2009 to start a Web site, True/Slant, that lasted a little more than a year before it was taken over by Forbes in a deal that brought Dvorkin into the company with the title of Chief Product Officer. (Dvorkin’s “Copy Box” column is a lot of jargon-crowded hype about the awesomeness of the “product”; he recently defended the concept of “sponsored content” in the wake of last week’s debacle in which the Atlantic published an “advertorial” for Scientology.) Dvorkin’s July 2010 deal also brought under the Forbes online umbrella several of True/Slant’s left-wing staff and contributors, including Zwick, Ungar and, apparently, Professor Len Burman.

Can anyone cite an example of where a prominent liberal publication has brought in a conservative in a leadership position and allowed the conservative to turn the publication on its political head? I can’t think of an example.

This is one of the reasons we lose.

See more at: http://legalinsurrection.com/2013/01/forbes-is-a-case-study-on-how-conservatives-lose-institutions/#sthash.330Lp4CG.dpuf

What is Your Opinion 

of Mandatory Vaccination?

Look What Vanity, Stupidity, 

Too Much Money, and Rotten Taste 

Could Do For You!

Jocelyn Wildenstein, age 74

Net Worth: $500 million. Known for extensive facial surgeries, her divorce from Alec Wildenstein in 1999, and for her extravagant life. She once calculated her yearly telephone bill at $60,000 and food and wine costs at $547,000.

Donatella Versace, age 60

Net Worth: $200 million. However with her 20% stake in the Versace company, if it was to sell at its current valuation she would pocket around $1.7 billion.

Dolly Parton, age 69

Net Worth: $500 million. A sad, grotesque caricature of herself at age 69. The singer, songwriter, actress, author and philanthropist has been writing and performing hit country songs for over 40 years. She has released 41 top-10 country albums, and has had 25 number one singles. And look what it’s bought her.

Horatius at the Bridge

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! 

The horsemen 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 god-like kings of old; 

From sea-girt 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 Massilia's triremes, 

heavy with fair-haired 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 Clitumnus 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; 

Unwatched along Clitumnus 

grazes the milk-white steer; 

Unharmed the water fowl 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 marched to Rome. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

the wisest of the land, 

Who always by Lars Porsena 

both morn and evening stand: 

Evening and morn the Thirty 

have turned 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, beloved of Heaven! 

Go, and return in glory 

to Clusium's round 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 Tuscan armies 

were ranged beneath his eye, 

And many a banished 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 spacious champaign

to Rome men took their flight. 

A mile around the city 

the throng stopped 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-burned husbandmen 

with reaping-hooks and staves, 

And droves of mules and asses 

laden with skins of wine, 

And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 

and endless herds of kine, 

And endless trains of wagons 

that creaked beneath the weight 

Of corn-sacks and of household goods 

choked every roaring gate. 

Now, from the rock Tarpiean, 

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 stormed 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, 

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 whirling 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 Lucumo. 

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 Sextus, 

who wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

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 toward him and hissed, 

No child but screamed out curses, 

and shook its little first. 

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 might win the bridge, 

what hope to save the town?" 

Then out spoke 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, 

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 strait 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: 

"Lo, 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 sayest, 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. 

Then none was for a party; 

then all were for the state; 

Then the great man helped the poor, 

nd the poor man loved the great. 

Then lands were fairly portioned; 

then spoils were fairly sold: 

The Romans were like brothers 

in the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

more hateful than a foe, 

And the Tribunes beard the high, 

and the Fathers grind the low. 

As we wax hot in faction, 

in battle we wax cold: 

Wherefore men fight not as they fought 

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 axe: 

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 towards 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 grey crag where, girt with towers, 

The fortress of Naquinum 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 golden arms 

clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

rushed on the Roman Three; 

And Lausulus of Urgo, 

the rover of the sea, 

And Aruns of Volsinium, 

who slew the great wild boar, 

The great wild boar that had his den

 amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 

And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 

along Albinia's shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low: 

Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 

"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! 

No more, aghast and pale, 

From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 

the track of thy destroying bark. 

No more Campania's hinds shall fly 

to woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail." 

But now no sound of laughter 

was heard among the foes. 

A wild and wrathful clamour 

from all the vanguard rose. 

Six spears' lengths from the entrance 

halted that deep array, 

And for a space no man came forth 

to win the narrow way. 

But hark! the cry is Astur, 

and lo! the ranks divide; 

And the great Lord of Luna 

comes with his stately stride. 

Upon his ample shoulders 

clangs loud the four-fold shield, 

And in his hand he shakes the brand 

which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 

a smile serene and high; 

He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

and scorn was in his eye. 

Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter 

stand savagely at bay: 

But will ye dare to follow, 

if Astur clears the way?" 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

with both hands to the height, 

He rushed against Horatius 

and smote with all his might. 

With shield and blade Horatius 

right deftly turned the blow. 

The blow, yet turned, 

came yet too nigh; 

It missed his helm, 

but gashed his thigh: 

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

to see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

he leaned one breathing-space; 

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, 

sprang right at Astur's face. 

Through teeth, and skull, and helmet 

so fierce a thrust he sped, 

The good sword stood a hand-breadth 

out behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great Lord of Luna 

fell at that deadly stroke, 

As falls on Mount Alvernus 

a thunder-smited oak. 

Far o'er the crashing forest 

the giant arms lay spread; 

And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

right firmly pressed his heel, 

And thrice and four times tugged amain,

 ere he wrenched out the steel. 

"And see," he cried, "the welcome, 

fair guests, that waits you here! 

What noble Lucumo comes next 

to taste our Roman cheer?" 

But at his haughty challenge 

a sullen murmur ran, 

Mingled of wrath, and shame, 

and dread, along that glittering van. 

There lacked not men of prowess, 

nor men of lordly race; 

For all Etruria's noblest 

were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

felt their hearts sink to see 

On the earth the bloody corpses; 

in their path the dauntless Three; 

And, from the ghastly entrance 

where those bold Romans stood, 

All shrank, like boys who unaware, 

ranging the woods to start a hare, 

Come to the mouth of a dark lair 

where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 

to lead such dire attack? 

But those behind cried "Forward!"

and those before cried "Back!" 

And backward now and forward 

wavers the deep array; 

And on the tossing sea of steel, 

to and fro the standards reel; 

And the victorious trumpet-peal 

dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

strode out before the crowd; 

Well known was he to all the Three, 

and they gave him greeting loud. 

"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home! 

Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city; 

thrice looked he at the dead; 

And thrice came on in fury, 

and thrice turned back in dread: 

And, white with fear and hatred, 

scowled at the narrow way 

Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

the bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever

 have manfully been plied; 

And now the bridge hangs tottering 

above the boiling tide. 

"Come back, come back, Horatius!" 

loud cried the Fathers all. 

"Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall!" 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted back: 

And as they passed, beneath their feet 

they felt the timbers crack. 

But when they turned their faces, 

and on the further shore 

Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

they would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder 

fell every loosened beam, 

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

lay right athwart the stream: 

And a loud shout of triumph 

rose from the walls of Rome, 

As to the highest turret-tops 

was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken, 

when first he feels the rein, 

The furious river struggled hard, 

and tossed his tawny mane, 

And burst the curb, and bounded, 

rejoicing to be free, 

And whirling down, in fierce career, 

battlement, and plank, and pier 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

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; 

Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

to Sextus nought 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. 

"Oh 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. 

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 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 

bare bravely up his chin. 

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus, 

"will not the villain drown? 

But for this stay, ere close of day, 

we would 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 plough from morn till night; 

And they made a molten image, 

and set it up on high, 

And there it stands unto this day t

o witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

plain for all folk to see; 

Horatius in his harness, 

halting upon one knee: 

And underneath is written,

 in letters all of gold, 

How valiantly he kept the bridge 

in the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 

unto the men of Rome, 

As the trumpet-blast that calls to them 

to charge the Volscian home; 

And wives still pray to Juno 

for boys with hearts as bold 

As his who kept the bridge so well 

in the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter, 

when the cold north winds blow, 

And the long howling of the wolves 

is heard amidst the snow; 

When round the lonely cottage 

roars loud the tempest's din, 

And the good logs of Algidus 

roar louder yet within; 

When the oldest cask is opened, 

and the largest lamp is lit; 

When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 

and the kid turns on the spit; 

When young and old in circle 

around the firebrands close; 

When the girls are weaving baskets 

and the lads are shaping bows 

When the goodman mends his armour, 

and trims his helmet's plume, 

And the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

goes flashing through the loom; 

With weeping and with laughter 

still is the story told, 

How well Horatius kept the bridge 

in the brave days of old.

~ Lord Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859)