Oh! ne’er again may War, with lightning-stroke,
Rend its last honours from the shatter’d oak!
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine,
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.
Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire.
In all the grandeur of celestial ire,
Once more thine own, th’ immortal Archer’s form
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm!
Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame
A living temple of ethereal flame?