As angels, clothed with heavenly light;
And yield forth life-blood, richly red
As patriot hearts have ever shed.
God help us! we are veiled within—
Or white or black—with shrouds of skin;
And, at the last, we all shall crave
Small difference in the breadth of grave!
But—when the grass grows, green and calm,
And smells above our dust, like balm—
I think our rest will sweeter be,