I see brigades, magnificent and large, With bristling bayonets prepare to charge; I see their banners in the distance gleam, Reflecting back the sun's resplendent beam; Within the shelter of the rifle pits, Another army with composure sits, While ever and anon a rifle's crack Seems to invite the spirited attack. From a commanding, wooded eminence, By nature calculated for defence, Upon the advancing regiments I see The murderous belching of artillery; I see their proud and militant array, Before the deadly grapeshot melt away; Before the rifle's supplementing breath, Whole columns sink in ghastly heaps of death; I see them close their gaps and press ahead, But only to augment the list of dead; I see them, stretched upon the burning sands, Clutching the air with lacerated hands; From underneath the mutilated heap, The wounded, with great difficulty, creep; Dragging a helpless arm, or shattered limb, With reeling brain and sight confused and dim, They grope, they crawl, or limp with painful tread; Their uniforms no longer blue, but red; And pinioned underneath the ghastly pile, I hear them struggle for release the while; But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries, Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise; Weaker and weaker are their throes, until With one last quivering throb, they too, are still. I see the vultures, as they scent afar Their portion in the reeking spoils of war; Far in the distance scattering specks appear, Which multiply in size as they draw near, Until they balance with their pinions spread, Or circle 'round the dying and the dead. This is the realistic side of war, Which most men overlook and all abhor, Which differs from the sentiments conveyed By spotless uniforms on dress parade. * * * * * War is a crucible that tries men's souls, A drama, stern in all its various rôles; Though saturated with all forms of crime, 'Tis celebrated in heroic rhyme; Though opposite to every humane thought, With murder, pillage and destruction fraught, In literature, in history and art, It forms the theme, or plays a leading part; Though at the best, deplorable and bad, 'Tis yet with sentiment and romance clad; Thus are the gory deeds of sword and fire, Commemorated by the bardic lyre.