University of Virginia Library

When rose the sun, and crimson was the morn,
While light and shade the western hills adorn,
The clouds of mist slow through the valleys rolled,
Tinged with the morning, like a sea of gold.
As in the east the beams of light advance,
Like burnished gold shines every polished lance;
All faces then a joyful aspect wear,
When native hills and native vales appear.