Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Greece and Turkey in Europe: Vol. XIX. 1876–79.

Turkey in Europe, and the Principalities: Servia

Prince Eugene

By From the German

Translated by J. Hughes

PRINCE EUGENE, our noble leader,

Made a vow in death to bleed, or

Win the Emperor back Belgrade:

“Launch pontoons, let all be ready

To bear our ordnance safe and steady

Over the Danube,”—thus he said.

There was mustering on the border

When our bridge in marching order

Breasted first the roaring stream:

Then at Sembin, vengeance breathing,

We encamped to scourge the heathen

Back to Mahood, and fame redeem.

’T was on August one and twenty,

Scouts with glorious tidings plenty

Galloped in through storm and rain;

Turks they swore three hundred thousand,

Marched to give our Prince a rouse, and

Dared us forth to battle-plain.

Then at Prince Eugene’s headquarters

That our fine old fighting Tartars,

Generals and field-marshals all,

Every point of war debated,

Each in his turn the signal waited

Forth to march and on to fall.

For the onslaught all were eager

When the word sped round our leaguer:

“Soon as the clock chimes twelve to-night,

Then bold hearts sound boot and saddle,

Stand to your arms and on to battle,

Every one that has hands to fight!”

Musketeers, horse, yägers, forming,

Sword in hand, each bosom warming,

Still as death we all advance;

Each prepared, come blows or booty,

German-like to do our duty,

Joining hands in the gallant dance.

Our cannoneers, those tough old heroes,

Struck a lusty peal to cheer us,

Firing ordnance great and small;

Right and left our cannon thundered

Till the Pagans quaked and wondered,

And by platoons began to fall.

On the right, like a lion angered,

Bold Eugene cheered on the vanguard;

Ludovic spurred up and down,

Crying, “On, boys, every hand to ’t,

Brother Germans, nobly stand to ’t,

Charge them home for our old renown!”

Gallant Prince, he spoke no more; he

Fell in early youth and glory,

Struck from his horse by some curst ball:

Great Eugene long sorrowed o’er him,

For a brother’s love he bore him,

Every soldier mourned his fall.

In Waradin we laid his ashes;

Cannon peals and musket flashes

O’er his grave due honors paid:

Then the old Black Eagle flying,

All the Pagan powers defying,

On we marched and stormed Belgrade.

Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD