by Rose Terry Cooke
The old, old story o'er again --
Made up of passion, parting, pain.
He fought and fell, to live in fame,
But dying only breathed her name.
Some tears, most sad and innocent;
Some rebel thoughts, but all unmeant;
Then, with a silent, shrouded heart,
She turned to life and played her part.
Another man, who vowed and loved,
Her patient, pitying spirit moved,
Sweet hopes the dread of life beguiled, --
The lost love sighed, -- the new love smiled.
So she was wed and children bore,
And then her widowed sables wore;
Her eyes grew dim, her tresses gray,
And dawned at length her dying day.
Her children gather, -- some are gone,
Asleep beneath a lettered stone;
The living, cold with grief and fear,
Stoop down her whispered speech to hear.
No child she calls, no husband needs.
At death's sharp touch the old wound bleeds:
Call him! she cried, her first love's name
Leapt from her heart with life's last flame.
William S. Gottsberger
11 Murray Street