Hohenlinden

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'dTo join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of Heaven,Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow;And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye braveWho rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulcher.

Thomas Campbell.