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?