ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
By T. Campbell.
Weekly Inspector, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.
[Thomas Campbell, idem.
Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]
THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.
Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway;
And all the social virtues lov'd to stray;
Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose,
Rever'd for ages by contending foes,
What envious demon, ranging to destroy,
Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy?
What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail!
What screams of terror load the passing gale!
See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance,
The shame of manhood, and the boast of France!
See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife
The loathing virgin and indignant wife!
While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood,
And all the mountain torrents swell with blood!
Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade
O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid!
Around the desolated scene he throws
A look, that speaks insufferable woes:
Then starting from his trance of dumb despair,
Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air:
"Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze,
I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days,
On whose green tops malignant planets scowl,
Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl;
Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view,
Ye still are left to hear my last adieu!
My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound,
Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground,
To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day,
Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey,
Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel
Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel!
And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given,
On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven,
Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd,
Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd,
O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore
A moment hover, and we part no more—
On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs,
Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs—
O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care
Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer!
Look down, look down on this devoted land,
O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand!
O let the blood that streaming to the skies,
Still flows in torrents—let that blood suffice!
To thee the dreadful recompense belongs—
To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs;
O vindicate the rights of nation's sway,
And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"
Weekly Inspector, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.
Poetry.
Original.
Gentlemen,