Horatius at the bridge

Without boasting [!] I  will reveal I got a bag of sweets for writing a  long  compostion on this when ~I was 6 years old and in the Infants’ School

Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VII. Descriptive: Narrative.  1904.
Narrative Poems: II. Rome
Horatius at the Bridge
Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)
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,         5
  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         10
  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,         15
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,         20
  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:         25
From lordly Volaterræ,
  Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants
  For godlike kings of old;
From sea-girt Populonia,         30
  Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
  Fringing the southern sky;
From the proud mart of Pisæ,
  Queen of the western waves,         35
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         40
  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;         45
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         50
  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;         55
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         60
  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.         65
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         70
  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:         75
“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena,—
  Go forth, beloved of Heaven!
Go, and return in glory
  To Clusium’s royal dome,
And hang round Nurscia’s altars         80
  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.         85
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         90
  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         95
The Tusculan Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber
  Was tumult and affright;
From all the spacious champaign         100
  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.         105
For aged folk on crutches,
  And women great with child,
And mothers, sobbing over babes
  That clung to them and smiled,
And sick men borne in litters         110
  High on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sunburned husbandmen
  With reaping-hooks and staves,
And droves of mules and asses
  Laden with skins of wine,         115
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,         120
  Choked every roaring gate.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
  Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
  Red in the midnight sky.         125
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         130
  Have spread the Tuscan bands,
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
  In Crustumerium stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia
  Hath wasted all the plain;         135
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,         140
  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.         145
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:         150
  “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:         155
“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         160
  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,         165
Is heard the trumpets’ 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,         170
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,         175
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,         180
  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:         185
There Cilnius of Arretium
  On his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the fourfold shield,
Girt with the brand none else may wield;
Tolumnius with the belt of gold,         190
And dark Verbenna from the hold
  By reedy Thrasymene.
Fast by the royal standard,
  O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium         195
  Sat in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,
  That wrought the deed of shame.         200
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         205
  But spat towards 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,         210
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,         215
  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.         220
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         225
  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,—         230
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,         235
  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?”         240
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,—         245
  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,”         250
And straight against that great array
  Went forth the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
  Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,         255
  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,
  And the poor man loved the great;         260
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         265
  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;         270
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         275
  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.         280
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.         285
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,         290
  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;         295
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.         300
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         305
  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.         310
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
  Into the stream beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
  And clove him to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius         315
  Darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
  Clashed in the bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii
  Rushed on the Roman three;         320
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         325
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;         330
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         335
The track of thy destroying bark;
No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns, when they spy
  Thy thrice-accursèd sail!”
But now no sound of laughter         340
  Was heard among the foes;
A wild and wrathful clamor
  From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears’ length from the entrance,
  Halted that mighty mass,         345
And for a space no man came forth
  To win the narrow pass.
But, hark! the cry is Astur:
  And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great lord of Luna         350
  Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
  Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
  Which none but he can wield.         355
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         360
  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,         365
He rushed against Horatius,
  And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
  Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;         370
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,         375
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 handbreadth out         380
  Behind the Tuscan’s head.
And the great lord of Luna
  Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
  A thunder-smitten oak.         385
Far o’er the crashing forest
  The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low
  Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur’s throat Horatius         390
  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!         395
What noble Lucumo comes next
  To taste our Roman cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
  A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled with wrath and shame and dread,         400
  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.         405
But all Etruria’s noblest
  Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
  In the path the dauntless three;
And from the ghastly entrance,         410
  Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank,—like boys who, unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear         415
  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!”         420
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         425
  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:         430
“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;         435
  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         440
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         445
  Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
  Loud cried the Fathers all,—
“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
  Back, ere the ruin fall!”         450
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,         455
  And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
  They would have crossed once more;
But with a crash like thunder
  Fell every loosened beam,         460
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
  Lay right athwart the stream;
And a long shout of triumph
  Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops         465
  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,         470
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.         475
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,         480
  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;         485
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         490
  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!”         495
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         500
  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         505
  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,         510
  Swollen high by months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing,
  And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
  And spent with changing blows;         515
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         520
  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.         525
“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,         530
  “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;         535
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,         540
  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;         545
And they made a molten image,
  And set it up on high,—
And there it stands unto this day
  To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,         550
  Plain for all folk to see,—
Horatius in his harness,
  Halting upon one knee;
And underneath is written,
  In letters all of gold,         555
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 cries to them         560
  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.         565
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         570
  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;         575
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,         580
  And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armor,
  And trims his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
  Goes flashing through the loom;         585
With weeping and with laughter
  Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.

When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves

Of all the seasons, I love most the Fall
When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves
They love to  toast themselves in summer sun
And want no shelter from the Western wind.
While squirrels   hide their  nuts and batten down
For winter on this  European isle.

For  those who wish there is the Shopping Mall
Where they forget  thin nature now bereaved.
For children  playing ball is joy and fun,
With grazed  legs and knees forever skinned
Meanwhile the rich put on their evening gowns
And after dinner, dance  and woo a  while.

But many like myself  desire the call
Of  knotted hedge  and bent aslant small trees
Of damp long grass and hares wild on the hunt
For  winter   madness  makes all  beasts grow  thin
We in  old wool coats   will crouch and frown
In camera,  waiting with our hearts docile.

Yet,there is a threat in    hearing, Fall
As if our forebears could  have lived quite free
Unclothed and loving,   dreams  of human’   haunt
As if we could wind back the reel and  film again.
Knowing this impossible we’re drawn
To  fall ourselves and sleep  and never smile.

The world itself is dance,  it is a Ball
If we lose our thoughts  and merry be
Give ourselves what we most truly want
This world was made for us to span and scan
Every plant for you  and me is grown
And so we smile and smile on Europe’s  isle

How to write a sestina




This form originates from the songs of troubadours around the 12th Century.It is quite complex with six stanzas of six lines and an ending envoi of three.
The end words of the first stanza must be repeated in different  orders  in all the other stanzas so clearly those 6 words must be carefully chosen.No doubt reading some sestinas before we  begin  is a good idea.

Feelings drift  in summer heated air

Feelings drift  in summer heated air
As silent reverie gives minds  their ample space
 Trees more heavy with excessives leaves
Droop like shades across their garden home
Sun near   horizontal in its streams
Creates deep shadows where it cannot reach.

The ripened plums are almost out of reach
Their fragrance lends a splendour to the air
And as their leaves fall gently by the stream
More gaps are made and sunshine gets  ripe space
Such a cherished  respite  is a   home
Hear small  wild creatures rustle in the leaves.


Yet even here the world outside can reach
Despite our music sonorous  in the air
For News we hear,so pity  from us streams
We cannot stay for always in  this space
Technologies now stamp  around the  home
Take up our mind and good thoughts outward leave

And yet we must still reach  for   mental space
Streams of mercy leave   homes  aired with grace.

I got all the 6 words in the last 2  lines!



Paysage Moralisé byWysten Hugh Auden

Author: Wysten Hugh Auden
Title: Paysage Moralisé
Source: The Collected Poetry of W. H. Auden. New York: Random House, 1945. Pp. 47-48.

1  Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,
2  Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
3  Round corners coming suddenly on water,
4  Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
5  We honour founders of these starving cities
6  Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,

7  Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
8  That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys;
9  Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities
10 They reined their violent horses on the mountains,
11 Those fields like ships to castaways on islands,
12 Visions of green to them who craved for water.

13 They built by rivers and at night the water
14 Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
15 Each in his little bed conceived of islands
16 Where every day was dancing in the valleys
17 And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains
18 Where love was innocent, being far from cities.

19 But dawn came back and they were still in cities;
20 No marvellous creature rose up from the water;
21 There was still gold and silver in the mountains
22 But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
23 Although to moping villagers in valleys
24 Some waving pilgrims were describing islands …

25 “The gods,” they promised, “visit us from islands,
26 Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities;
27 Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys
28 And sail with them across the lime-green water,
29 Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow,
30 The shadow cast across your lives by mountains.”

31 So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
32 Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
33 So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow
34 Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities,
35 So many, careless, dived and drowned in water,
36 So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.

37 It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water
38 Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
39 And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.

The cheque book

I got a  cheque book  after you had died
With only my name  printed on the page
I  lost this new one even though I tried
To keep apart from life, my grief and rage .

I do not like that statements  come to me
They emphasis what I’d like to forget
There is no “us,”  it’s sadly” I “not “we”
These little signs, emotions  sad beget

Though I hate arithmetic and rules
I always  cooked  the finance and the meal
You didn’t want to suffer as at school
Mostly   you left me to do  these deals

I rarely use a  paper cheque today
I find  impersonal,nameless ways to pay

Can we break the rules of grammar in poetry?



Breaking Grammar Rules in Poetry Writing


Quote:As the poetry canon grows beyond measure, poets increasingly reach for creative devices to make their work stand out.

Toying with grammar rules is one such device, but it is not something that can be approached carelessly. If you choose to forgo the rules because you don’t know them rather than as a creative technique, your lack of knowledge will show and the poem will present as amateurish. Of course, that’s true for all types of writing: learn the rules, and only after you have learned them, go ahead and break them.

I salute anyone who breaks the rules in the interest of art and great poetry writing just as much as I admire poets who craft meter and verse within the confines of grammar. So for this language-loving poet, either way is the right way. Walk the tight rope or jump from it and see if you can fly.