Conamur tenues grandia.

"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,

Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veil

Hangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orb

In vain attempts to penetrate the gloom

Condens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oil

Within some glassy concave yields its flame

Twinkling; and save where in the servile hand

Behind a rattling coach, the tædal stick

Held waving glimmers on the face of things.