Where Liberty hath made her home.
’Tis midnight, all is hushed and still
Where’er my footsteps roam;
While towering through the air of night
Yon stately pile doth rear its head,
A granite flower, of giant height,
Sprung from the dust of Patriots dead!
Methinks I hear the rustling sound
Of myriad angels’ hovering wings,
Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,