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,
