This week, and for two more weeks, I will be covering the long poem Horatius, by Lord Macaulay. I have chosen this poem because it is a tale of heroic resistance to overwhelming odds, and it is easy to draw parallels with the present day. This week’s stanzas tell of the defence mounted by the three heroes against the Etruscans’ champions.
But all Etruria’s noblest
Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay (1800—1859)
Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the dauntless Three:
Poem 367. Horatius, stanzas XXXVI to LII (Etruria’s champions humbled)
XXXVI
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;
XXXVII
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 Nequinum lowers
O’er the pale waves of Nar.
XXXVIII
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.
XXXIX
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.
XL
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.’
XLI
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.
XLII
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.
XLIII
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?’
XLIV
Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the heights
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.
XLV
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.
XLVI
And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder smitten oak.
Far o’er the crashing forest
The giant’s arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.
XLVII
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?’
XLVIII
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.
XLIX
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 amidst bones and blood.
L
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.
LI
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.’
LII
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.
LIII
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!’
This week, we see how Horatius and his two allies fare against the champions of the Etruscan army. As the horde nears the bridge and the Etruscans see that the bridge is held only by three men-at-arms, shouts of derision are heard. The three stand quiet and ready for the fight, ignoring the cat-calls and jeering. Since they are not to be intimidated, three of the chiefs of the army ride forth from the throng and dismount, readying their arms and armour to force the passage.
The three champions of the Etruscans are noted warriors in their own right: Aunus from the green hills of Tifernum; Seius, the lord of the slave mines of Ilva and Picus, the faithful liegeman from the harbour town Nequinum. Their pride is soon humbled as each is defeated by one of the heroes: Lartius throws Aunus down into the raging Tiber, Seius receives a mortal wound from Herminius and Picus is likewise killed by a single thrust of Horatius’s sword. There appears to be little or no swordplay but perhaps Macaulay’s narrator is showing his obvious bias towards the three Romans.
Notwithstanding this rather troubling beginning, three more Etruscans rush towards the heroes but are similarly vanquished in moments: Ocnus of Falerii is hewed down by Lartius, Aruns of Volsinium (noted for his feat of arms in killing a giant wild boar) is killed by Lartius, and Horatius stabs the notorious pirate Lausulus in the heart, declaring that his days of rapine and plunder are over and that his victims in Ostia (Sardinia) and Campania (the area around Naples) will rejoice to learn of his death.
This brings a temporary pause; the Etruscans cease to be amused by this apparently puny resistance and lament the loss of six such prominent chiefs. They halt in some confusion and nobody seems willing to confront the three heroes until Astur, the huge and powerful lord of Luna, carrying his outsize shield and massive sword (brand), so big that none but he can wield it, forces his way to the front. He declares that though the three heroes are fierce defenders, he scorns his compatriots for cowards who won’t approach the foe themselves but will willingly follow him if he clears the way. He swings his broadsword overhead and charges at Horatius, bringing the heavy blade sweeping down with all his might, attempting to cut his opponent down in one blow just as the heroes have dealt with his six predecessors.
Horatius has braced against the attack and turns it aside from his head with his sword and shield, though not altogether successfully: the champion’s outsize sword slashes his thigh as it follows through and the supporters of Astur rejoice when they see Horatius is bleeding.
Momentarily staggered, Horatius reels back but leans on Herminius for only a breath before riposting with a savage and unanswerable thrust that pierces the lord of Luna through the mouth and passes through his brain and out of the back of his helmet a hands-breadth, felling him like a tree struck by lightning. The Etruscans can hardly believe that another of their captains has fallen and their “pale augurs” are evidently regretting their airy assurances to Lars Porsena that the army cannot fail to win.
Freeing his sword with considerable effort, Horatius addresses the enemy army, ironically welcoming them and assuring them that all who come will receive the same treatment. He challenges them, inviting the next “noble Lucumo” to enjoy the same reception. This does not sit well with the Etruscans, many of whom are notable for their feats of arms but they are all somewhat cowed by the ease with which their best men have been overcome. Macaulay’s narrator likens the scene to that of a cave occupied by a dangerous bear, approached unawares by boys who seek only to hunt a hare and who hear the beast growling and moving in its lair.
Stanza 50 contains one of my favourite parts of any poem:
Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack:
But those behind cried ‘Forward!’
And those before cried ‘Back!’
This perfectly encapsulates the hesitation on the part of those at the front of a mob faced with danger and the urging of those at the back who are not at risk of their lives.
Macaulay shows us the confusion and surging waves of the army, the flashing of sun on steel, the fluttering standards and the sound of the war-trumpets failing weakly as confidence ebbs from them.
The movement of the army brings one man to the front that the three heroes greet even more sardonically than any others: false Sextus. They greet him with ironic courtesy, inviting him to approach closer to his home, though the reception they propose to offer him is questionable, though presumably warm. Sextus evidently feels this keenly: he vacillates between showing courage enough to fight and an ignominious retreat which will certainly belittle him in the eyes of his comrades and hesitates, torn between his rage and hatred and his fear and faintheartedness.
While all this has been going on, the citizens of Rome and their leaders have not been idle: they have plied crowbars and axes lustily and the bridge now is teetering over the Tiber, primed to fall at any minute. The three are commanded to dash back across before the structure falls for good, and they seem to be on the cusp of success.
These stanzas deal fairly graphically with the treatment handed out by the defending three to all comers and I like the way Macaulay shows their defiance, not in curses or empty threats, but in minatory and ironic phrases of welcome that belie their true intent. We see also how the hubris of the Etruscan champions is quickly punctured (quite literally in several cases) by the humble but capable Roman heroes.
There are a couple of good performances of the poem on YouTube: one by Jake Phillips, and a group reading recorded by A Kindly Voice during the Covid-19 pandemic.