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Poems About Italy

Table of Contents

  1. Italy by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
  2. Italy by Samuel Rogers
  3. Italy by Oliver Goldsmith
  4. In Italy by Bayard Taylor
  5. San Miniato by John Sterling
  6. Genoa by William Gibson
  7. Rome by Madison Cawein
  8. On Venice Waters by Ruby Archer
  9. The Gondolier by Ruby Archer
  10. Cornelia's Jewels by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
  11. Horatius at the Bridge by Thomas B. Macaulay

  1. Italy

    by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    Our Italy 's
    The darling of the earth,—the treasury, piled
    With reveries of gentle ladies, flung
    Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's worn stuff,—
    With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung
    On workday counter, still sound silver-proof,—
    In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young,
    Before their heads have time for slipping off
    Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed,
    We all have sent our souls out from the north,
    On bare white feet which would not, print nor bleed,
    To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,
    Where the low murmuring Lombard rivers lead
    Their bee-like way to gardens almost worth
    The sight which thou and I see afterward
    From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,
    When standing on the actual, blessed sward
    Where Galileo stood at nights to take
    The vision of the stars, we find it hard,
    Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make
    A choice of beauty.

  2. Italy

    by Samuel Rogers

    O Italy, how beautiful thou art!
    Yet I could weep, — for thou art lying, alas,
    Low in the dust; and we admire thee now
    As we admire the beautiful in death.
    Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert born,
    The gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst it not;
    Or wert as once, awing the caitiffs vile
    That now beset thee, making thee their slave!
    Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more!
    — But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already;
    Twice shone among the nations of the world,
    As the sun shines among the lesser lights
    Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come
    When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,
    Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,
    Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
    If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
    Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
    Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
    And, dying, left a splendor like the day,
    That like the day diffused itself, and still
    Blesses the earth, — the light of genius, virtue,
    Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
    Godlike example.

  3. Italy

    by Oliver Goldsmith

    Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
    Bright as the summer Italy extends.
    Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
    Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
    While oft some temple's mouldering tops between
    With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
    Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
    The sons of Italy were surely blest.
    Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
    That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
    Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
    Whose bright succession decks the varied year:
    Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
    With vernal lives, that blossom but to die,—
    These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,
    Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
    While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
    To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

  4. In Italy

    by Bayard Taylor

    Dear Lillian, all I wished is won!
    I sit beneath Italia's sun,
    Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver
    Along the banks of Arno's river.

    Through laurel leaves, the dim green light
    Falls on my forehead as I write,
    And the sweet chimes of vesper, ringing,
    Blend with the contadina's singing.

    Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold;
    The stirring memories of old
    Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
    And wake my spirit's young ambition.

    But as the radiant sunsets close
    Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose,
    My soul forgets the olden glory,
    And deems our love a dearer story.

    Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime
    The music of the Tuscan rhyme;
    Thou standcst here—the gentlehearted—
    Amid the shades of bards departed.

    I see before thee fade away
    Their garlands of immortal bay,
    And turn from Petrarch's passion glances
    To my own dearer heart-romances.

    Sad is the opal glow that fires
    The midnight of the cypress spires,
    And cold the scented wind that closes
    The heart of bright Etruscan roses.

    A single thought of thee effaced
    The fair Italian dream I chased;
    For the true clime of song and sun
    Lies in the heart which mine hath won!

  5. San Miniato

    by John Sterling

    While slow on Miniato's height I roam,
    And backward look to Brunelleschi's dome,
    'T is strange to think that here on many a day
    Old Michael Angelo has paced his way:
    And watching Florence, in his bosom found
    A nobler world than that which lies around.
    To him, perhaps, the ghost of Dante came
    At sunset, with his pride of mournful fame.
    By me the twain, the bard and sculptor stand,
    With strong lip gazing and uplifted hand:
    The great, the sad, fighters in ages past,
    With their full peace fill e'en the weak at last.

  6. Genoa

    by William Gibson

    Gently, as roses die, the day declines;
    On the charmed air there is a hush the while;
    And delicate are the twilight-tints that smile
    Upon the summits of the Apennines.
    The moon is up; and o'er the warm wave shines
    A faery bridge of light, whose beams beguile
    The fancy to some far and fortunate isle,
    Which love in solitude unlonely shrines.
    The blue night of Italian summer glooms
    Around us; over the crystalline swell
    I gaze on Genoa's spires and palace-domes:
    City of cities, the superb, farewell!
    The beautiful, in nature's bloom, is thine;
    And Art hath made it deathless and divine!

  7. Rome

    by Madison Cawein

    Above the circus of the world she sat,
    Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride:
    Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat,
    Shrieked at her feet and for her pastime died.

  8. On Venice Waters

    by Ruby Archer

    It is night in Venice,—night.
    Ah—forever let us dream
    In the starry mystic gleam
    On the drifting walls alight
    With a pale, reflected glamor
    Of the waters' dusk and white.

    In a gondola we glide
    By those ancient palace walls,
    And anon soft music falls,—
    Crystal music on the tide,
    While a sculptured Fate or Amor
    Half-revealed, the shadows hide.

    Arch of white divides the gloom,
    And a deeper shade beneath
    Marks a bridge where many a wreath
    In old days of war and doom
    Passed above in joy or sorrow—
    Laurel crown or deck of tomb.

    Mark the long, lithe silhouette
    Of the leaning gondolier,
    And his languored singing hear,—
    Jewel words in silver set.
    How the untrained accents borrow
    Beauty from unknown regret!

  9. The Gondolier

    by Ruby Archer

    Hark to the gondolier singing,
    Dreamily, dreamily singing,
    Ever guiding our languid gondola
    Out on the fair lagoon.

    Lo, how the pigeons are winging,
    Airily, airily winging,
    Blending coos in our idle revery
    Out on the fair lagoon.

    Now is the gondolier calling,
    Warningly, warningly calling;
    Hark—the answer—from turning shadowy,
    Where the dark waters wind.

    Now we emerge in a glory,
    Radiant, radiant glory;
    Campanile and dome rise magical
    Out of the Grand Canal.

    Every wall has a story,
    Passionate, passionate story,—
    O'er the song of the gondolier hovering,
    Out on the Grand Canal.

    Gardens above us are leaning,
    Drowsily, drowsily leaning;
    Never water and sky so heavenly,
    Sung by a gondolier.

    Ever and aye in our dreaming,
    Far-away, far-away dreaming,
    We'll remember this golden Italy,
    Sung by a gondolier.

  10. Cornelia's Jewels

    Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

    Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride,
    Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide:
    No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,
    No gems were mingled ’mid her waves of dark and glossy hair;
    And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien,
    A woman in her gentle grace—in majesty a queen.

    While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air,
    And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare,
    And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light,
    Proudly she glanced her dark eye o’er the store of jewels bright.
    “Rich as these are,” she answered then, “and dazzling as they shine,
    They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

    “You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear,
    Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?”
    The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight
    Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might;
    She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine,
    And murmur’d: “Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?”

  11. Horatius at the Bridge

    by Thomas B. Macaulay.

    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.

    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 alway 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 royal dome;
    And hang round Nurscia's altarsv 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 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.

    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 dovecot,
    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 spoke 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 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 the glimmering line,
    Now might ye see the banners
    Of twelve fair cities shine;
    But the banner of proud Clusium
    Was the highest of them all,
    The terror of the Umbrian,
    The terror of the Gaul.

    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,
    That 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 fist.

    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 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 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 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.

    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
    Amid 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 tracks of thy destroying bark,
    No more Campania's hinds shall fly
    To woods and caverns when they spy
    Thy thrice accurséd sail."

    But now no sound of laughter
    Was heard among the foes.
    A wild and wrathful clamour
    From all the vanguard rose.
    Six spears' length 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 fourfold 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, though 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 wildcat 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
    Behind the Tuscan's head.

    And the great Lord of Luna
    Fell at the deadly stroke,
    As falls on Mount Alvernus
    A thunder-smitten oak.
    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
    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 the 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 the dark lair
    Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
    Lies amid 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 ax 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 farther 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 long 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;
    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.

    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 cries 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 amid 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;
    When 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.

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