He sets! that glorious orb! and now is gone—
And night's dark wings are slowly moving on;—
But see! the moon, full-orbed, ascends the sky,
And walks that dark-blue path so calm on high—
Pours her soft light—a sea of silvery beams,
On that proud pile—as on the sleeping streams;
As if indignant that the Night would hide,
With her black wing, a nation's central pride—
That towering dome, beheld from o'er the sea,
To crown the clime of all who now are free.