agony! Woe! woe! for they hear the sound of the tramping and
neighing of horses--they come nearer and nearer. The moon throws the
long, dark shadows of those advancing horse-men over the battle-field.
It is fearful to see their rash approach; spurring over thousands
of pale corpses, not regarding the dying, who breathe out their last
piteous sighs under the hoofs of these wild horses.

The Cossack has no pity; he does not shudder or draw back from this
monstrous open grave, which has received thousands of men as if they
were one great corpse. The Cossack has come to rob and to plunder; he
spares neither friend nor foe. He is the heir of the dead and of the
dying, and he has come for his inheritance. If he sees a ring sparkling
upon the hand of a grinning corpse, he springs from his horse and tears
it off. If his greedy, cruel eye rests upon a rich uniform he seizes it,
he tears it off from the bleeding, wounded body, no matter whether it is
dead or still breathing and rattling.

Look at that warrior who, groaning with anguish, his limbs torn to
pieces, bleeding from a thousand wounds, is lying in an open grave;
he is wounded to death; he still holds his sword in his left hand--his
right arm has been torn off by a cannon-ball, a shot that he might not
be trampled upon by the horses' hoofs; they are forced to leave him in
the hands of God and to the mercy of man.

But the Cossack knows no mercy. That is a word he has never heard in his
Russian home; he has no fear of God before his eyes--he fears the Czar
and his captain, and above all other things, he fears the knout. He
knows nothing of pity, for it has never been shown him--how then should
he exercise it?

When the Cossack saw the Prussian officer in his gold-embroidered
uniform, he sprang from his horse and threw the bridle over him, a
shrill whistle told the wild steed, the Cossack's better half, that he
must stand still. He sprang into the grave where the Prussian warrior,
the German poet, was laid to rest. Yes, a great German poet lies
there--a poet by the grace of God. All Germany knows him, "their
songster of the spring." All Germany had read and been inspired by his
lays. The Austrian and the Saxon considered the Prussian Major Ewald
von Kleist their enemy, but they loved and admired the poet, Ewald von
Kleist. The people are never enemies to poesy, and even politics are
silent before her melodious voice.

There he lies, the gallant warrior, the inspired, n