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 splendour from her deathlike trance—