“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
  When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant
          tread,
  But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
  For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
  And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
  To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
  And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine)
  For the honor of old Bingen,—­dear Bingen on the Rhine.

  “There’s another,—­not a sister; in the happy days gone by
  You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
  Too innocent for coquetry,—­too fond for idle scorning,—­
  O friend!  I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
          mourning! 
  Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,
  My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),—­
  I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
  On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—­fair Bingen on the Rhine.

  “I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,—­I heard, or seemed to hear,
  The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
  And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
  The echoing chorus sounding, through the evening calm and still;
  And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,
  Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! 
  And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—­
  But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—­loved Bingen on the Rhine.”

  His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,—­his grasp was childish
          weak,—­
  His eyes put on a dying look,—­he sighed and ceased to speak;
  His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—­
  The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! 
  And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
  On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn;
  Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
  As it shone on distant Bingen,—­fair Bingen on the Rhine.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.

* * * * *

HOHENLINDEN.

[1800.]

  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 steeds to battle driven,
  And louder than the bolts of heaven
  Far flashed the red artillery.