The dark stream must be crossed by prince and peasant
alike. Eternal exile is the lot of all, whether nameless and poor, or
sprung of the line of Inachus:
A_las! my Postumus, alas! how speed_
T_he passing years: nor can devotion's deed_
S_tay wrinkled age one moment on its way_,
N_or stay one moment death's appointed day_;
N_ot though with thrice a hundred oxen slain_
E_ach day thou prayest Pluto to refrain_,
T_he unmoved by tears, who threefold Geryon drave_,
A_nd Tityus, beneath the darkening wave_.
T_he wave we all must one day surely sail_
W_ho live and breathe within this mortal vale_,
W_hether our lot with princely rich to fare_,
W_hether the peasant's lowly life to share_.
I_n vain for us from murderous Mars to flee_,
I_n vain to shun the storms of Hadria's sea_,
I_n vain to fear the poison-laden breath_
O_f Autumn's sultry south-wind, fraught with death_;
A_down the wandering stream we all must go_,
A_down Cocytus' waters, black and slow_;
T_he ill-famed race of Danaus all must see_,
A_nd Sisyphus, from labors never free_.
A_ll must be left,--lands, home, beloved wife_,--
A_ll left behind when we have done with life_;
O_ne tree alone, of all thou holdest dear_,
S_hall follow thee,--the cypress, o'er thy bier!_
T_hy wiser heir will soon drain to their lees_
T_he casks now kept beneath a hundred keys_;
T_he proud old Caecuban will stain the floor_,
M_ore fit at pontiffs' solemn feasts to pour_.
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