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
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.