Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)

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 arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,

Then rushed 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 of 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 sepulchre.