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Yet still shall Art her splendors round thee cast, And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 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. From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed Starts to existence, rushes into speed, Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.

Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy's thought, Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, No mortal birth ye seem—but formed to bear Heaven's car of triumph thro' the realms of air; To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, The winds your rivals in the glorious race;