But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the 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!

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 sepulcher.

* * * * *

THOMAS MOORE
IRELAND, 1779-1852

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls
The soul of music shed,