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They used to teach this in grade school when this was a White country.

.............

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:

From lordly Volaterræ,
Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants
For godlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia,
Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
Fringing the southern sky;

From the proud mart of Pisæ,
Queen of the western waves,
Where ride Massilia’s triremes, Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers,
From where Cortona lifts to heaven
Her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams, Clitumnus
Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman
Is heard by Auser’s rill; No hunter tracks the stag’s green path
Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus
Grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere.

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 always 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 altars
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.

<continued in comments>

They used to teach this in grade school when this was a White country. ............. 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: From lordly Volaterræ, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisæ, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia’s triremes, Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers, From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser’s rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser’s rill; No hunter tracks the stag’s green path Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere. 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 always 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 altars 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. <continued in comments>

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[–] • 1 pt

<5> finish

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.

But 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 armor,
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
Bare 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 plough 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 amidst 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 armor,
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.

[–] • 1 pt

Poems used to be longer.

[–] • 1 pt

You're thinking of ballads.

You should spend less time here and more time writing a book. Work, motherfucker. Arbit!