Hohenlinden

On Linden, when the sun was low,     All bloodless lay the 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.