Most sacred held; domestic Phœbus, thou,
To whom with Vesta chaste alike we bow;
Great Guardian of the high Tarpeian Rock;
And all ye Pow'rs, whom Poets may invoke;
O grant, that Day may claim our Sorrows late,
When lov'd Augustus shall submit to Fate,
Visit those Seats, where Gods and Heroes dwell,
And leave, in Tears, the World he rul'd so well!
The Poet concludes.
The Work is finish'd, which nor dreads the Rage
Of Tempests, Fire, or War, or wasting Age:
Come, soon or late, Death's undetermined Day,
This mortal Being only can decay;
My nobler Part, my Fame, shall reach the Skies,
And to late Times with blooming Honours rise:
Whate'er th' unbounded Roman Power obeys,
All Climes, and Nations shall record my Praise:
If 'tis allow'd to Poets to divine,
One half of round Eternity is mine.
FINIS.
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