And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; And now, with shouts and clapping, They gave him of the corn-land 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 It stands in the Comitium, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, When the oldest cask is opened, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, When the good man mends his armor, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. Macaulay. The Song of the Shirt. With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, That shattered roof- and this naked floor A table a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work-work-work From weary chime to chime; Work-work-work As prisoners work for crime! Band and gusset and seam Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand! "Work -work-work In the dull December light; And work-work-work When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- Athena, the Queen of the Air. Hood. We will take the bird first. It is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it; is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the cloud closed into the perfect form of the bird's wings, so the wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into rapture of acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose. Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air: on these the gold of the cloud that cannot be gathered by any covetousness; the rubies of the clouds, that are not the price of Athena, but are Athena ;] the vermilion of the cloud-bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky — all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven by Athena herself into films and threads of plume; with wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the |