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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.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden's hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid 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!

Ah! few shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their windingsheet,

And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

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