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Mis à jour: 30 juin 2025
Au comte de Dartmouth . Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, Fair Freedom rose New England to adorn: Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated faction dies. Soon us appear'd the Goddess long desir'd Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd. Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
Aurora, hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
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