Hohenlinden
ON Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat at dead of nightCommanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayedEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stained 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 HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,Who 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 sepulchre.