Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Sion and of God? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! O! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell,--the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see that man hath yet a soul,--and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world! T. Campbell. CCXV. HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, 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. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stainéd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'T is 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. T. Campbell.