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Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, And bid the past, to Fancy's ardent eyes, From Time's dim sepulchre in glory rise.


 * Souls of the lofty! whose undying names,

Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore, Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and heroes! could those flames return, That bade your hearts with Freedom's ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown,