From thy rich dome again th’ unrivall’d steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.
Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem—but form’d to bear
Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air;
To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;