The knospèd rose in the green bud lies / Waiting the sun's warm ray: / But frowned upon by the cold grey skies / Alack and a-well-a-day!

She seems pulsingly alive in a way that the grand, marmoreal singers sometimes did not.

And loud as brawns wer [they] snoring,

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air / Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there