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Starts to existence, rushes into speed; Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, Whose clear, soft brilliance emulates thy skies, And scenes, that glow in colouring's richest bloom, With life's warm flush, Palladian halls illume.


 * And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume unfurl'd,

Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne, The Lords of nations knelt, in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time, Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine Olive-shades among, Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head, From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead,