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 death