Part 7 — THOMAS CAMPBELL 1767–1844

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 stained 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.

Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her— The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her.

She’s at the window many an hour His coming to discover: And he looked up to Ellen’s bower And she looked on her lover—

But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling! And am I then forgot—forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.