[Footnote 1: I extract the following picture of consummate horror, from the notes to a Poem written in twelve syllable verse upon the campaign of 1794 and 1795; it was during the retreat to Deventer. "We could not proceed a hundred yards without perceiving the dead bodies of men, women, children and horses in every direction. One scene made an impression upon my memory which time will never be able to efface. Near another cart we perceived a stout looking man, and a beautiful young woman with an infant, about seven months old, at the breast, all three frozen and dead. The mother had most certainly expired in the act of suckling her child, as with one breast exposed, she lay upon the drifted snow, the milk to all appearance in a stream drawn from the nipple by the babe, and instantly congealed. The infant seemed as if its lips had but just then been disengaged, and it reposed its little head upon the mother's bosom, with, an overflow of milk, frozen as it trickled from the mouth; their countenances were perfectly composed and fresh, resembling those of persons in a sound and tranquil slumber."] The SOLDIER'S WIFE. DACTYLICS. Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visag'd Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance! Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness. [1] Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy hagged face. Thy husband will never return from the war again, Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity-- Cold are thy famish'd babes--God help thee, widow'd One! [Footnote 1: This stanza was supplied by S.T. COLERIDGE.] The WIDOW. SAPPHICs. Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom! She had no home, the world was all before her, She had no shelter. Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot, "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer. "Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish. "Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me! "Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "Pity me Strangers! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!" Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining. On drove the chariot. On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out; Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman.