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⟨And⟩ bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
⟨'Tis⟩ morn—but scarce yon level sun
⟨Can⟩ pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
⟨Where⟩ furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
⟨The⟩ combat deepens—On, ye brave,
⟨Who⟩ rush to glory and 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! Campbell.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer’s evening,
old Kasper’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin,
roll something large and round.
Which he beside the rivulet
in playing there had found,
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and srnootli and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
