A VISION OF WAR.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 11217, 24 October 1914, Page 10

A VISION OF WAR.

. * (By ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.)

Tlie past rises bei'oro me, as it were, like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparations—the music of boisterous drums—the silver voices of heroic bugles-

"We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; •we see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men.; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust .we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part for ever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep.

Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some arc parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. And some are talking with wives and endeavouring with brave words, spoken in tho old tones, to drive_ from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing— at the turn cf the road a hand waves—she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and for ever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war—marching down the streets of the great cities—through the towns and across the prairies—down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields —in all the hospitals of pain—on all the weary marches. We stand' guard with them the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood—in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves' of steel. We are bound with them in the prisons of hatred and famine: but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for _ us. Tliey are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows and the embracing vines.

They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike .of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars—they are at peace.

In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.