18
THE RESTORATION
And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume unfurled,
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,
And once again, with fond delight survey,
The proud memorials of thy noblest day.
Lo! where thy sons, oh Rome! a godlike train,
In imaged majesty return again!
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august,
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
