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.