And stupifies him with a sleeping draught;
This done, th' enchantress, with her locks unbound
About her altar trips a frantic round;
Piecemeal the consecrated wood she splits,
And dips the splinters in the gory pits,
Then hurls them on the piles; the sleeping sire
She lustrates thrice, with sulphur, water, fire.
* * * * * *
His feeble frame resumes a youthful air,
A glossy brown his hoary head of hair,