The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 57, July, 1862. Various

here at hand,

      I cannot stand,—

      Reach hither what you're drinking,

      My heart is 'neath me sinking.

      War-comrades all, heart's-brothers good,

      I spare no skill and labor,

      For these your hurts in hero-mood

      You got from hostile sabre.

      Now well behave, keep up thy heart,

      God's help itself will tend thee;

      Although at present great the smart,

      To dress the wound will mend thee;

      Wash off the blood,

      Time makes it good,—

      Reach me the shear,—

      A plaster here,—

      Hold out your arm,

      'T is no great harm,—

      Give drink to stay,

      He limps away:

      Thank God, their wounds all tended,

      Be dart- and pike-hole mended!

      Three faces does a surgeon wear:

      At first God is not higher;

      And when with wounds they illy fare,

      He comes in angel's tire;

      But soon as word is said of pay,

      How gracelessly they grieve him!

      They bid his odious face away,

      Or knavishly deceive him:

      No thanks for it

      Spoils benefit,

      Ill to endure

      For drugs that cure;

      Pay and respect

      Should he collect,

      For at his art

      Your woes depart;

      God bids him speed

      To you in need;

      Therefore our dues be giving,

      God wills us all a living.

      No death so blessed in the world

      As his who, struck by foeman,

      Upon the airy field is hurled,

      Nor hears lament of woman;

      From narrow beds death one by one

      His pale recruits is calling,

      But comrades here are not alone,

      Like Whitsun blossoms falling.

      'T is no ill jest

      To say that best

      Of ways to die

      Is thus to lie

      In honor's sleep,

      With none to weep:

      Marched out of life

      By drum and fife

      To airy grave,

      Thus heroes crave

      A worthy fame,—

      Men say his name

      Is Fatherland's Befriender,

      By life and blood surrender.

      With the introduction of standing armies popular warlike poetry falls away, and is succeeded by camp-songs, and artistic renderings of martial subjects by professed poets. The people no longer do the fighting; they foot the bills and write melancholy hymns. Weckerlin (1584-1651) wrote some hearty and simple things; among others, Frisch auf, ihr tapfere Soldaten, "Ye soldiers bold, be full of cheer." Michael Altenburg, (1583-1640,) who served on the Protestant side, wrote a hymn after the Battle of Leipsic, 1631, from the watch word, "God with us," which was given to the troops that day. His hymn was afterwards made famous by Gustavus Adolphus, who sang it at the head of his soldiers before the Battle of Lützen, November 16, 1632, in which he fell. Here it is. (Verzage nicht, du Häuflein klein.)

      Be not cast down, thou little band,

      Although the foe with purpose stand

      To make thy ruin sure:

      Because they seek thy overthrow,

      Thou art right sorrowful and low:

      It will not long endure.

      Be comforted that God will make

      Thy cause His own, and vengeance take,—

      'T is His, and let it reign:

      He knoweth well His Gideon,

      Through him already hath begun

      Thee and His Word sustain.

      Sure word of God it is to fell

      That Satan, world, and gates of hell,

      And all their following,

      Must come at last to misery:

      God is with us,—with God are we,—

      He will the victory bring.

      Here is certainly a falling off from Luther's Ein feste Burg, but his spirit was in the fight; and the hymn is wonderfully improved when the great Swedish captain takes it to his death.

      Von Kleist (1715-1759) studied law at Königsberg, but later became an officer in the Prussian service. He wrote, in 1759, an ode to the Prussian army, was wounded at the Battle of Künersdorf, where Frederic the Great lost his army and received a ball in his snuff-box. His poetry is very poor stuff. The weight of the enemy crushes down the hills and makes the planet tremble; agony and eternal night impend; and where the Austrian horses drink, the water fails. But his verses were full of good advice to the soldiers, to spare, in the progress of their great achievements, the poor peasant who is not their foe, to help his need, and to leave pillage to Croats and cowards. The advice was less palatable to Frederic's troops than the verses.

      But there were two famous soldier's songs, of unknown origin, the pets of every camp, which piqued all the poets into writing war-verses as soon as the genius of Frederic kindled such enthusiasm among Prussians. The first was an old one about Prince Eugene, who was another hero, loved in camps, and besung with ardor around every watchfire. It is a genuine soldier's song.

      Prince Eugene, the noble captain,

      For the Kaiser would recover

      Town and fortress of Belgrade;

      So he put a bridge together

      To transport his army thither,

      And before the town parade.

      When the floating bridge was ready,

      So that guns and wagons steady

      Could pass o'er the Danube stream,

      By Semlin a camp collected.

      That the Turks might be ejected,

      To their great chagrin and shame.

      Twenty-first of August was it,

      When a spy in stormy weather

      Came, and told the Prince and swore

      That the Turks they all amounted,

      Near, at least, as could be counted,

      To three hundred thousand men, or more.

      Prince Eugenius never trembled

      At the news, but straight assembled

      All his generals to know:

      Them he carefully instructed

      How the troops should be conducted

      Smartly to attack the foe.

      With the watchword he commanded

      They