We need not to be told thou art
Of Rome's own glorious race;
We hear her song breathe in thy voice,
In thy form behold her grace,
And her pure and classic beauty
In thy rare and thoughtful face.

That speaks her ancient honor,
Her proud immortal dower;
It tells of her sad present,
Yet foretells her triumph hour, —
Hath the grandeur of her sorrow,
And the glory of her power.