Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, every foot of grass has its horrible stain.
Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where historians saw glory.
A LEGEND OF THE IVY.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden,
Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden;
Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them,
Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them.
Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her,
One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her,
"Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter,
And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after.
Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating,
Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting."
"Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never,
I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever."
"For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving.
His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believing
His heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness.
She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness.
But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished;
And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished;
Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting,
And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating;
And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing,
They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing,
Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass and clover,
Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over;
And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming,
And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roaming
Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor,
Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever.