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.Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to castA handful on my head, that owns no grave.