Hohenlinden

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch 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 riven,

Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden's hills or stainèd snow;

And 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 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 feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.