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Athens of Italy! once more are thine, Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky, Rise round each fane in faultless majesty, So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand.

Ye, at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendor from her deathlike trance; Whose rallying call bade slumb'ring nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break; Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose, And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose, And bade its pealing energies resound, With power electric, through the realms around;