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Rh And Mnestheus moving at his side,

And young Ascanius near,

All bleeding to the camp is led,

Faltering and propping up his tread

With guidance of a spear.

He frets and strives with vain essay

To pluck the broken reed away,

Demands the surest, readiest aid,

To ope the wound with broad-sword blade,

Unflesh the barb so deep concealed,

And send him back to battle-field.

And now Iapis had appeared,

Blest leech, to Phœbus' self endeared

Beyond all men below,

On whom the fond indulgent god

His augury had fain bestowed,

His lyre, his sounding bow:

But he, the further to prolong

A sickly parent's span,

The humbler art of medicine chose.

The knowledge of each herb that grows,

Plying a craft unknown to song,

An unambitious man.

Chafing with anguish, rage, and grief,

Impatient halts the wounded chief,

Propped on his mighty spear:

Iulus weeping and a band

Of gallant youths around him stand:

He heeds not groan or tear.

The aged leech, his garment wound

In Pæon sort his shoulder round,

In vain his sovereign simples plies,

His science skilled to heal,

In vain with hand and pincer tries

To loose the stubborn steel.