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VI.
Sleep well, O sad-browed city!Whatever may betide,
Not under a nation's pity,
But 'mid a nation's pride.
The vines that round you clamber,
Brightest shall be, and best;
You sleep in the honor-chamber—
Each one a royal guest.
Columbia e'er will know you,
From out her glittering towers,
And kisses of love will throw you,
And send you wreaths of flowers;
And e'er in realms of glory
Shine bright your starry claims;
Angels have heard your story,
And God knows all your names.
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