May 30, 1893
by
IT seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say
That ’twas not part of Nature’s own sweet way,
That on the field where once the cannon’s breath
Lay many a hero cold and stark in death,
Some little children, in the after-years,
Had come to play among the grassy spears,
And, all unheeding, when their romp was done,
Had left a wreath of wild flowers over one
Who fought to save his country, and whose lot
It was to die unknown and rest forgot?