With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more priz'd, more precious, since deplor'd
As lov'd, lost relics, ne'er to be restor'd,
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed,
By fond affection, bending o'er the dead.
Athens of Italy! once more are thine,
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine.
For thee, bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,
And forms august as natives of the sky,
Rise round each fane, in faultless majesty,
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.
Ye, at whose voice, fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendor from her deathlike trance;
Whose rallying call bade slumb'ring nations wake,
- see errata—original has Their