FAST and furious falls the snow; | |
| Shrilly the bleak tempests blow, | |
| With a sound of wailing woe, | |
| O’er the soil; | |
| Where the watch-fires blaze around, | 5 |
| Thick the warriors strew the ground, | |
| Each in weary slumber bound, | |
| Worn with toil. | |
| |
| Hearken to the cannon-blast! | |
| Drums are beating fierce and fast: | 10 |
| Fierce and fast the trumpets cast | |
| Warning call. | |
| Form the battle’s stern parade, | |
| Charge the musket, draw the blade; | |
| Square and column stand arrayed, | 15 |
| One and all. | |
| |
| On they rush in stern career, | |
| Dragoon and swart cuirassier; | |
| Hussar-lance and Cossack-spear | |
| Clanging meet! | 20 |
| Now the grenadier of France | |
| Sinks beneath the Imperial lance; | |
| Now the Prussian horse advance, | |
| Now retreat. | |
| |
| Davoust, with his line of steel, | 25 |
| Storms their squadrons till they reel, | |
| While his ceaseless cannon-peal | |
| Rends the sky. | |
| ’Gainst that crush of iron hail | |
| Naught may Russia’s ranks avail; | 30 |
| Like the torn leaves in the gale, | |
| See, they fly! | |
| |
| Through the battle’s smoky gloom | |
| Shineth Murat’s snowy plume: | |
| Fast his cohorts to their doom | 35 |
| Spur the way. | |
| Platoff, with his desert horde, | |
| Is upon them with the sword; | |
| Deep his Tartar-spears have gored | |
| Their array. | 40 |
| |
| With his thousands, Augereau | |
| Paints with blood the virgin snow: | |
| Low in war’s red overthrow | |
| Sleep they on! | |
| Helm and breastplate they have lost, | 45 |
| Spoils that long shall be the boast | |
| Of the savage-bearded host | |
| Of the Don. | |
| |
| Charge, Napoleon! Where be those | |
| At Marengo quelled thy foes; | 50 |
| Crowning thee at Jena’s close | |
| Conqueror? | |
| At this hour of deadly need | |
| Faintly thy old guardsmen bleed; | |
| Vain dies cuirassier and steed, | 55 |
| Drenched with gore. * * * * * | |
| Sad the frosty moonbeam shone | |
| O’er the snows with corses strown, | |
| Where the frightful shriek and groan | |
| Rose amain: | 60 |
| Loud the night-wind rang their knell; | |
| Fast the flaky horrors fell, | |
| Hiding in their snowy cell | |
| Heaps of slain! | |
| |
| Many a year hath passed and fled | 65 |
| O’er that harvest of the dead: | |
| On thy rock the Chief hath sped, | |
| St. Helene! | |
| Still the Polish peasant shows | |
| The round hillocks of the foes, | 70 |
| Where the long grass rankly grows, | |
| Darkly green. | |
| |
