| 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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| Far flash'd 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. | 20 |
| |
| '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 | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| And every turf beneath their feet | |
| Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. | |
| |
