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     Plucked and transferred thee to its lyric page;
Intent to bind thy brows with oaken crown,
     And hand thy name in crimson glory down,
Kindling the narrative from age to age
     To fire the hearts of hero, saint, and sage
Above the fear of tyrants or their frown.
     Come, take thy station by th' intrepid twain
That shout o'er th' Athenian tyrants slain
     By that bold boy, that braved Porsena's flame,
And burned his way through torture to his fame—
     By him, Horatius, stalwart to the last—
These are thy kin, these great souls of the past.

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Horatius (1)
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