The peaceful moon sheds downward from the sky
Upon the sleeping city her soft light;
Lines of storm--laden vapour heavily
From the low north advance upon the night;
The minster--towers are seen in vision bright
In front, distinct with fretted tracery;
And long glades stretch beneath this giddy height,
Dappled with shadows dark of tower and tree.
Such wert thou, Brussels, when I gazed on thee;
Thou, at whose name the circumstance of war
Rose to my youthful fancy; now no more
A sound to move to tears; to memory
Henceforth, as ever unto freedom, dear,
In virtue of this night so soft and clear.