“But think—­O Mr. Soldier, think,—­
    How many little sisters’ brothers
  Are going all away to fight
    And may be killed, as well as others!”

  “Why, bless thee, child,” the Sergeant said,
    His brawny hand her curls caressing,
  “’Tis left for little ones like thee
    To find that War’s not all a blessing.”

  And “Bless thee!” once again he cried;
    Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
  And marched away with wrinkled brow
    To stop the struggling tear benignaut.

  And still the ringing shouts went up
    From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
  The pall behind the standard seen
    By one alone of all the village.

  The oak and cedar bend and writhe
    When roars the wind through gap and braken;
  But ’tis the tenderest reed of all
    That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

ROBERT HENRY NEWELL.

* * * * *

WATERLOO.

[June 15, 1815.]

FROM “CHILDE HAROLD,” CANTO III.

    There was a sound of revelry by night,
    And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
    Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
    The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;
    A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
    Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
    Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
    And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
  But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

    Did ye not hear it?—­No; ’twas but the wind,
    Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
    On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! 
    No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
    To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet,—­
    But hark!—­that heavy sound breaks in once more,
    As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
    And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
  Arm! arm! it is—­it is—­the cannon’s opening roar!

    Within a windowed niche of that high hall
    Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
    That sound the first amidst the festival,
    And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
    And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
    His heart more truly knew that peal too well
    Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
    And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
  He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

    Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
    And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
    And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago
    Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
    And there were sudden partings, such as press
    The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
    Which ne’er might be repeated:  who would guess
    If evermore should meet those mutual eyes
  Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!