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, O Rome! a godlike train,
In imaged majesty return again!