_May 30, 1893_

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?