HOHENLINDEN.1

ON Linden 2 when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser,3 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.

1 Hohenlinden: this is a little village of Upper Bavaria situated in a pine forest on the river Iser, about twenty miles from Munich. Here in December, 1800, the combined French and Bavarian forces under General Moreau, representing Napoleon, gained a decisive victory over the Austrians. The battle was fought in the forest, in the midst of a snowstorm so blinding that it is said that the armies could only see each other by the flash of their guns.

The Austrian ruler was obliged to accept such terms of peace as Napoleon saw fit to offer, as the only means of saving his capital of Vienna.

2 Linden: a contraction of Hohenlinden.

3 Iser (Ee'zer).

And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon

lurid1 sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank 2 and fiery Hun3
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!

4

Ah! 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.

1 Lurid: pale yellow, dismal.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

2 Frank: here, a name given to the French.
3 Hun: here, applied to the Austrians.
4 Munich (Mu'nik): the capital of Bavaria.

THE HAPPY WARRIOR.

WHO is the happy warrior? who is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be?

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'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends;

Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state: Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all.

Who if he be called upon to face

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Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a lover; and attired

With sudden brightness like a man inspired;
And through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;

Or if an unexpected call succeed,

Come when it will, is equal to the need:

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Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or he must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name,—
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy warrior: this is he

Whom

every man in arms should wish to be. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!
You who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,1

Of power or will to shine, of art to please!

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer
To blame my pencil and confute my pen -
To make me own this hind, of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

1 Debonair: courteous, elegant.