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,
