HOHENLINDEN.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
When, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Hohenlinden.2

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser3 rolling rapidly.

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1 Robert Blake, a celebrated English admiral, born A.D. 1598. He defeated both the Dutch and Spanish fleets in several battles. He died A.D. 1657.

2 A village in Germany, where the Austrians and Bavarians were completely defeated by the French under Moreau, December 3, 1800. The Danube.

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 stainèd 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 Frank1 and fiery Hun2

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich,3 all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet, every turf beneath their feet

And

Shall mark the soldier's cemetery.

'The French.

2 The Austrian.

3 The capital of Bavaria; here, the Bavarian army.

THE END.

Levey, Robson, and Franklyn, Great New Street, Fetter Lane.