Eritish at the bridge, part three, by Thomas Bevington McAulley. No sound of joy or sorrow is heard from either bank, but friends and foes, and dumb surprise with parting lips and straining eyes, stood sneezing where he sank. And when above the surges they saw his crust appear, all rooms at fourth are raptors cry, and even the bums of tusk and eye, good scarce for bear to cheer. But fiercely ran the currents, swold and high by months of rain, and fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain. But heavy with his armor, and spent with clanging clothes, and off they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never I weaned its whimmer in such an evil case, struggle through such a raiding flood, safe to the landing place, but his homes were born up bravely by the bar he parted within, and a good father-tiber bear bravely up his chin, curse on him! And all his most sexist, the Lord the villain drowned, but for this day, do's of day, we would have sacked the town! Evan helped him quote, Lord's porcelain, and bring him safe to shore, for such a gallant feed of arms was never seen before, and now he feels the bottom now and dry, or at these chins, now round him throwing the fathers to press his gory hands, and now his shouts and clapping and noise of weeping loud. The answers through the river gate, born by the joyous crowd, they gave him up the cornland, as was a public right, as much as two strong oxen could plow for more until 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, and stands in the chidmitium, plain for all folk to see, a righteous nish harness, halting under one knee and underneath his written, and letters all of gold have valiantly kept the bridge in the brave days of old. And now his name stoned stirring unto the men of Rome, as a trumpet blast that Christ then, the charge of Olsian home, and why I've still prayed to Juno for boys with hearts so 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 walls is heard amidst the snow, when round the lonely cottage, roads loud that the hemp is thin, and the good logs of El Gideus roar louder yet within. When the oldest cask is opened, and the largest lamp is lit, when the chestnuts glow and ambers, and the kids shurns on the spit, when young and old and circle around the fire brands close, when the girls are weaving baskets and lads are shaping bows, when the goodman men's armor entrims his helmet plume, when the good wife Shuttle Mereleco is flashing through the loom with weeping and the laughter, still is the story told, oh well, Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old. Horatius at the bridge by Thomas Babington McAuley, the end.