What wizard, what Thessalian spell,What god can save you, hamper'd thus?To cope with this Chimaera fellWould task another Pegasus.The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!A little dust on Matine shore has spann'dThat soaring spirit; vain it was to passThe gates of heaven, and send thy soul in questO'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;And Panthus' son has yielded up his breathOnce more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to proveHis prowess under Troy, and bade grim deathO'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.Yes, all “await the inevitable hour;”The downward journey all one day must tread.