That circling flood, which all must stem,Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,Wearers of haughtiest diadem,Or humblest tillers of the fields.In vain we shun war's contact redOr storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:In vain, the season through, we dreadFor our frail lives Scirocco's bane.Cocytus' black and stagnant oozeMust welcome you, and Danaus' seedIll-famed, and ancient SisyphusTo never-ending toil decreed.Your land, your house, your lovely brideMust lose you; of your cherish'd treesNone to its fleeting master's sideWill cleave, but those sad cypresses.Your heir, a larger soul, will drainThe hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,And richer spilth the pavement stainThan e'er at pontiff's supper ran.