Rider, 't is war's wild glow That makes me tremble so." Hurrah!
Stay in thy chamber near,
My love; what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide :
Soon, soon I take my bride.
Hurrah!
"Let me not longer wait :
Love's garden blooms in state,
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed."
Hurrah!
Now, then, come forth, my bride! Come forth, thou rider's pride! Come out, my good sword, come ! Forth to thy father's home! Hurrah!
"O, in the field to prance
The glorious wedding dance!
How, in the sun's bright beams,
Bride-like the clear steel gleams!"
Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters !
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold,
Let each his love infold.
Hurrah!
Once on the left it hung,
And stolen glances flung;
Now clearly on your right
Doth God each fond bride plight. Hurrah!
Then let your hot lips feel That virgin cheek of steel; One kiss, and woe betide Him who forsakes the bride. Hurrah!
Now let the loved one sing; Now let the clear blade ring, Till the bright sparks shall fly, Heralds of victory!
For, hark the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning;
It dawns in festal pride;
Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!
Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS.
'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air:
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill,
And the wide hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer ;
It rose, that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain :
"T was musical, but sadly sweet,
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,
And take a long unmeasured tone,
To mortal minstrelsy unknown.
It seemed to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall :
It struck even the besieger's ear
With something ominous and drear,
An undefined and sudden thrill,
Which makes the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense its silence framed;
Such as a sudden passing-bell
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.
THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which `fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, - alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold
and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, - the day
Battle's magnificently stern array !
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turned from all she brought to those she could
not bring.
I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing, and the name
So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude,
Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again,
Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet and plume and panoply.
Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance,
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are Down were the eagle-banners sent,
The bars survive the captive they inthrall;
The day drags through though storms keep out
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent;
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on; The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies, and makes
A thousand images of one that was
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.
ON came the whirlwind, like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast;
On came the whirlwind, -steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke ;
The war was waked anew.
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And, hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot, - a mingled host, -
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.
THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. THE Emperor Nap he would set out
For a summer excursion to Moscow; The fields were green and the sky was blue; Morbleu! Parbleu !
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow !
Four hundred thousand men and more,
Heigh-ho, for Moscow !
There were marshals by dozens and dukes by the
Princes a few, and kings one or two, While the fields are so green and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu !
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow !
There was Junot and Augereau, Heigh-ho, for Moscow !
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,
General Rapp and Emperor Nap,
Nothing would do,
And then came on the frost and snow,
All on the road from Moscow !
The Emperor Nap found, as he went,
That he was not quite omnipotent;
And worse and worse the weather grew,
While the fields were so green and the sky so blue, The fields were so white and the sky so blue,
Morbleu Parbleu !
But they must be marched to Moscow.
But the Russians they stoutly turned to,
All on the road to Moscow,
Nap had to fight his way all through,
They could fight, but they could not parley-vous, But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu !
And so he got to Moscow.
They made the place too hot for him,
For they set fire to Moscow;
To get there had cost him much ado,
And then no better course he knew,
While the fields were green and the sky was blue,
Morbleu Parbleu!
Than to march back again from Moscow.
The Russians they stuck close to him,
All on the road from Moscow;
There was Tormazow and Gomalow,
And all the others that end in ow;
Rajefsky and Noverefsky,
And all the others that end in efsky;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, and Schepeleff,
And all the others that end in eff; Wasiltschecoff, Kostomaroff, and Theoglokoff, And all the others that end in off; Milaravoditch, and Juladovitch, and Karatchkowitch,
And all the others that end in itch; Oscharoffsky, and Rostoffsky, Kasatichkoffsky, And all the others that end in offsky; And Platoff he played them off, And Markoff he marked them off, And Tutchkoff he touched them off, And Kutusoff he cut them off, And Woronzoff he worried them off, And Dochtoroff he doctored them off, And Rodinoff he flogged them off;
And last of all an Admiral came, A terrible man, with a terrible name, A name which you all must know very well, Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might,
They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
Nap would rather parley-vous than fight;
But parley-vous would no more do,
Morbleu! Parbleu !
For they remembered Moscow !
Morbleu! Ventrebleu !
What a terrible journey from Moscow !
The devil take the hindmost,
All on the road from Moscow !
Quoth Nap, who thought it small delight,
To fight all day and to freeze all night;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white and the sky so blue,
Morbleu Parbleu !
He stole away, I tell you true,
All by himself from Moscow.
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FROM RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOths.
WITH that he fell upon the old man's neck;
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
And soon rejoined the host. On, comrades, on!
Victory and Vengeance! he exclaimed, and took
The lead on that good charger, he alone
Horsed for the onset. They, with one consent,
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks
Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round.
Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat
Of battle, and returned the glad acclaim.
The astonished Mussulmen, on all sides charged,
Heard that tremendous cry; yet manfully
They stood, and everywhere, with gallant front,
Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
And knowing that no safety could be found
Save from their own right hands. No former day
Of all his long career had seen their chief
Approved so well; nor had Witiza's sons
Ever before this hour achieved in fight
Such feats of resolute valor. Sisibert
Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
And twice essayed beneath his horse's feet
To thrust him down. Twice did the prince evade
The shock, and twice upon his shield received
The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!
Go meet thy death from any hand but mine!
He said, and turned aside. Fitliest from me!
Exclaimed a dreadful voice, as through the throng
Orelio forced his way: fitliest from me
Receive the rightful death too long withheld!
T is Roderick strikes the blow! And as he The true Cantabrian weapon making way Attained his forehead. Wretch!" the avenger
Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove
The weapon, well bestowed. He in the seat
Tottered and fell. The avenger hastened on
In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing, and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth,
Roderick the Goth! his war-cry known
well.
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,
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And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!"
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had passed their lips, would with a curse
Have clogged it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, revealed
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O'er the field it
spread,
All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and
smote,
And overthrew, and scattered, and destroyed,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!
Thus he made his way, Smiting and slaying, through the astonished ranks,
Till he beheld, where, on a fiery barb,
Ebba, performing well a soldier's part,
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
With mutual rage they met. The renegade
Displays a cimeter, the splendid gift
Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
Embossed with gems, its blade of perfect steel,
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
With dazzling splendor, flashed. The Goth ob-
jects
His shield, and on its rim received the edge
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
Diminished. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt
On either part, and many a foin and thrust
Aimed and rebated; many a deadly blow,
Straight or reverse, delivered and repelled.
Roderick at length with better speed hath reached
The apostate's turban, and through all its folds
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