In Balls congeal'd the rolling Fleeces bound
In solid Hail result upon the Ground.
Thus whirl'd with nervous Force thro' distant Air,
The purple Tide forsook his Veins, with fear;
All Moisture left his Limbs. Transform'd to Stone,
In ancient Days the craggy Flint was known;
Still in th' Eubean Waves his Front he rears,
Still the small Rock in human Form appears
And still the Name of hapless Lychas bears.
The Apotheosis of Hercules.
But now the Hero of immortal Birth
Fells OEte's Forests on the groaning Earth;
A Pile he builds; to Philoctetes. Care
He leaves his deathful Instruments of War;
To him commits those Arrows, which again
Shall see the Bulwarks of the Trojan Reign.
The Son of Pæan lights the lofty Pyre,
High round the Structure climbs the greedy Fire;
Plac'd on the Top, thy nervous Shoulders spread
With the Nemæan Spoils, thy careless Head
Rais'd on the knotty Club, with Look Divine,
Here thou, dread Hero, of Celestial Line,
Wert stretch'd at Ease; as when a chearful Guest,
Wine crown'd thy Bowls, and Flow'rs thy Temples drest.
Now on all Sides the potent Flames aspire,
And crackle round those Limbs that mock the Fire:
A sudden Terror seiz'd th' immortal Host,
Who thought the World's profess'd Defender lost.
This when the Thund'rer saw, with Smiles he cries,
'Tis from your Fears, ye Gods, my Pleasures rise;
Joy swells my Breast, that my all-ruling Hand
O'er such a grateful People boasts Command,
That you my suff'ring Progeny would aid;
Tho' to his Deeds this just Respect be paid,
