Classic Poem

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless layth' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drums beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of the scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful rivalry.

Then shook the hills, by thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven:
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery!

The combat thickens! 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 sod beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!