On the Death of the Vice-Chancellor, A Physician.[1]

Learn ye nations of the earth     The condition of your birth,     Now be taught your feeble state,     Know, that all must yield to Fate!     If the mournful Rover, Death,     Say but once-resign your breath-     Vainly of escape you dream,     You must pass the Stygian stream.     Could the stoutest overcome     Death's assault, and baffle Doom,                     Hercules had both withstood     Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.[2]     Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain     By a trick of Pallas slain,     Nor the Chief to Jove allied[3]     By Achilles' phantom died.     Could enchantments life prolong,     Circe, saved by magic song,     Still had liv'd, and equal skill     Had preserv'd Medea still.[4]                                         Dwelt in herbs and drugs a pow'r     To avert Man's destin'd hour,     Learn'd Machaon[5] should have known     Doubtless to avert his own.     Chiron had survived the smart     Of the Hydra-tainted dart,[6]     And Jove's bolt had been with ease     Foil'd by Asclepiades.[7]     Thou too, Sage! of whom forlorn     Helicon and Cirrha mourn,                                         Still had'st filled thy princely place,     Regent of the gowned race,     Had'st advanc'd to higher fame     Still, thy much-ennobled name,     Nor in Charon's skiff explored     The Tartarean gulph abhorr'd.     But resentful Proserpine,     Jealous of thy skill divine,     Snapping short thy vital thread     Thee too number'd with the Dead.                             Wise and good! untroubled be     The green turf that covers thee,     Thence in gay profusion grow     All the sweetest flow'rs that blow!     Pluto's Consort bid thee rest!     Oeacus pronounce thee blest!     To her home thy shade consign,     Make Elysium ever thine!