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But when upon the funeral pyre

Her kindred placed the maid,

And curling round the greedy fire,

In vivid lustre play'd—

"My soul," thus spoke the god of day,

"Its own bright race abhors to slay;

O'erwhelm'd by that most wretched death

Which stopp'd the hapless mother's breath."

This said, with one short step he came,

And snatch'd his infant from the flame;

Through whose divided channel trod

The feet of the departing god.

The rescued child he gave to share

Magnesian centaur's fostering care;

And learn of him the soothing art

That wards from man disease's dart.

Of those whom nature made to feel

Corroding ulcers gnaw their frame;

Or stones far hurl'd, or glittering steel,

All to the great physician came.

By summer's heat or winter's cold

Oppress'd, of him they sought relief.

Each deadly pang his skill controll'd,

And found a balm for every grief.

On some the force of charmed strains he tried,

To some the medicated draught applied:

Some limbs he placed the amulets around;

Some from the trunk he cut, and made the patient sound.

But wisdom yields to sordid gain

Hands which the golden bribes contain

Are bound by them alone.

At their command the grasp of death

Restored the man whose forfeit breath

Had from its mansion flown.