When, o’er fair fields of fragrant crimson clover,
Steals the dear music of thy heavenly voice.
The nation kneels in humble adoration,
For angels follow in thy glittering train,
Singing sweet hymns of praise; while all creation
Mingles its voice in the triumphant strain.
No bloodstains mar thy robe of snowy whiteness,
Though thou hast paused o’er many a gory bed,
Shedding a halo of celestial brightness
Round the still forms of the unburied dead.