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By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, Genius and Taste shall love to wander still, For there has Art survived an Empire's doom, And reared her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb; She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!

Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire, In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form, Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame, A living temple of ethereal flame?