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On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout, mid' their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens—on, ye brave!
Who rush to glory and the grave;
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Oh! few shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be your winding sheet,
And every turf beneath your feet
Shall mark the soldiers' cemetry.
(2nd part)
Thomas Campbell
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 shew'd 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-sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven,
And vollying, like the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
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