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Through the ghostly dark of midnight
Lay the veteran on his mattress,
Loud without the East wind shuffled
Though within the room was still,
Till the veteran in his agony,
He, the rugged old campaigner,
Saw before him misty visions,
Conjured from his dying will.
Clouds of darkness rolling outwards
Drape a picture dimly peopled.
Shadows gradually light’ning
As with rays of dawning sun,
Now the landscape seems to open.
Vaguely is the scene familiar,
Hark! the sound his ears have strained for,
Distant beat of phantom drum.
Bit by bit his vision brightens
As the sun breaks forth in glory,
Shining on the glist'ning eagles
That surmount the brazen poles.
So, once more he is a soldier
Under his beloved standards,
Hearing drums, no longer ghostly,
Swelling into rythmic rolls.
Is not that the Pratzen looming?
Eagerly his eye, encounters
Vividly remembered features
As the broken scenes enlarge.
Are not those grey figures moving
Down the track that leads to Reygern?
Yes, they are advancing Russians.
Hark! there sounds the "Pas-de-Charge."
Oh! the well-remembered music
For his last advance is sounding.
In his ears now as at Austerlitz
Ring the rolling kettle drums.
Wafted o'er the ice of Tellnitz,
Carried on to Brune and Olmutz,
But a stern reply gives answer,
Dully boom the Russian guns.
Marmont's batteries quickly open
On the right Davout's are speaking
While the left with Lannes and Murat
Add their quota to the fray,
St. Hilaire's great red plumed masses,
Charging on with Vandamme's columns,
Through the light and into darkness
Swept before him as he lay.
Look! the Emperor is speaking,
"Gentlemen, lend your attention,
Sure the sun of Austerlitz yonder
Will ever bring success to you."
Such commanders, such an army,
Where could not one find a hero!
Oh, if only 'neath our banners
It had fought at Waterloo.
Gone are all the old commanders,
With them victory; and the veteran,
As he thinks of that disaster,
Groans aloud in his despair.
Ah! he is among the horsemen
Struggling forward on the hilltop,
Blindly drifting past the batteries,
Breaking on a kilted square.
Oh for Lasalle, slain at Wagram,
Poniatowski, drowned at Leipzig,
For those brilliant, dashing leaders
To control this frenzied force,
Piling up a writhing bulwark
On the unshattered line of bayonets;
Do you think we could have pierced them
Had Prince Murat led the horse?
As he led them once at Jena,
Bearing down the routed Prussians,
But the destinies have altered,
The Empire cannot rise again.
Spellbound, lying on his mattress,
He cannot reach those days of glory
For death's hands have tightened round him,
And the herald of day found him
Gathered to his comrades slain.
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