Hohenlinden
Thomas Campbell
1777 to 1844
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On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless th' untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,
Then rush'd steed to battle driv'n,
And louder than the bolts heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall a soldier's sepulchre.