ONCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fiercebattle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many awild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelledcup fill high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colorfrom harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightenedway with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of itswings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen poolscollected in the prints of human feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered andglimmered at the sun.Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming upabove the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose intothe sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers' breastssought mothers' eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secretswhispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day's work and thatnight's death and suffering Many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a starkept mournful watch upon it, and many...
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