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 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 steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd 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 sulph'rous 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.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill :
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!
Erin, my country! tho' sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—
Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh.*
Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
*Ireland my darling,-Ireland for ever!
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us,―rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :-
Oh whither,' she cried, hast thou wandered my love?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
'What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!' All mournful she hasten'd, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar !
From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! 'Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ? '—
Thou shalt live,' she replied, "Heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!'
Ah no the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return.
'Thou charmer of life ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love that await me afar: '-
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded
Hussar !
WHEN NAPOLEON WAS FLYING.
When Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo,
A British soldier dying,
To his brother bade adieu !
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