“And shall my labors thus inglorious end?
Shall my defeat give him a triumph new?”
The thought was fire, and did new vigor lend;
Back rushed his soul through every avenue.
A seeming cloud did from his brain ascend,
The magic colors vanished from his view;
And at his feet, in many a supple sweep,
The odious reptile coiled him for the leap.
XLVI.
Swift darts the tongue, the horrid jaws unfold;—