ONCE upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England,
it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought
upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild
flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the
dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and
shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colour from
harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men,
and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted
butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The
stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from
sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses'
hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the
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