Charles Dickens

The Battle of Life Charles Dickens

ONCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, afierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass wasgreen. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for thedew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many aninsect deriving its delicate colour from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew thatday by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The paintedbutterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. Thetrodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints ofhuman feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at thesun. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edgeby trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces thathad once at mothers' breasts sought mothers' eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep usfrom a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blewacross the scene of that day's work and that night's death and suffering! Many a lonelymoon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fightwere worn awa