THE CHILD ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Over the flowery meadow She wanders with careless feet, Chasing butterflies golden, Gathering blossoms sweet. She talks a-while to the roses, She grasps at the sunbeams bright; To pieces she plucks the daisies, And scatters their rays of white. “Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la!” She carols so sweet and clear, Unheeding the two great armies, Gathered in silence near— The two great hostile armies Gathered in battle array, Watching the tiny creature Among the blossoms at play. And never a sword is lifted, And never an order heard, As they list to the silvery accents, Like the trill of a blithesome bird. They listen, the grim old warriors, To the voice so full of glee, Singing, “Tra, la, la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la, la, lee!” And over the rippling tresses Do they watch the sunbeams glide, Till many a lip that quivers, The gray mustaches hide. And many a heart beats faster, As the thoughts of those thousands stray To the little ones singing, playing, In the homes so far away; Little ones singing, playing, Happy and gay and free, Sunny-haired little children They never again may see. Thus do they wait in silence, Till the child to her cottage-door Creeps—as the sunshine, often, From skies that are clouded o’er. Then—as those clouds in anger Meet with deafening din, So the two hostile armies The battle straightway begin. That was hundreds of years since; Scarcely the records tell To which of those hostile armies The glory of winning fell. But though ’twas hundreds of years since. There you may read, this day, How a little child, unwitting, Held them an hour at bay.