The Coquette.
Two girls sat in a gay saloon, nor mingled with the crowd;
The younger’s face was pale, and sad, the elder’s stern and proud.
“O Gertrude,” said the younger girl, “thou art a sad coquette;
Ah, many hearts have felt thy power, and thou art flirting yet.
There’s one who fills a foreign grave, who loved thee all too well,
Who breathed thy name forgivingly, as in the fray he fell;
And yet his fate was better far than that of poor Martelle,
Who lonely clanks his heavy chains—a madman—in his cell.”
“O Gertrude,” in a softer tone, “give up thy selfish arts,