Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash’d the flame: 
  The water plash’d in hissing jets as ball and bullet came. 
  Yet onward push’d the Cavaliers all stern and undismay’d,
  With thousand armed foes before, and none behind to aid. 
  Once, as they near’d the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept, 75
  That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept. 
  Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before: 
  “The current’s strong,—­the way is long,—­they’ll never reach
      the shore! 
  See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line! 
  Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!” 80

  Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill,
  And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges to the hill? 
  How they toss their mighty branches, struggling with the
      temper’s shock;
  How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the rock? 
  Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river. 85
  Though the water flashed around them, not an eye was seen to quiver;
  Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax’d his hold;
  For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts
      of old. 
  One word was spoken among them, and through the ranks it spread,—­
  “Remember our dead Claverhouse!” was all the Captain said. 90
  Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,
  Until they clear’d the heavy stream, then rush’d toward the isle.

  The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;
  The German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng. 
  But never bad they faced in field so stern a charge before, 95
  And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland’s broad claymore.[9]
  Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,
  That rises o’er the parent springs of rough and rapid Rhine,—­
  Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven, than came the Scottish band
  Right up against the guarded trench, and o’er it, sword in hand. 100
  In vain their leaders forward press,—­they meet the deadly brand!

  O lonely island of the Rhine,—­Where seed was never sown,
  What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown? 
  What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the rain,
  She pour’d a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain? 105
  A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round;
  A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter’d mound;
  And one huge watch-fire’s kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare
  To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there.