Or, if e'er pity moved a hostile breast
For here I stand thy enemy profest;'
Meanwhile, whate'er was in the power of flame,
Was all consumed; his body's nervous frame
No more was known; of human form bereft—
The eternal part of Jove alone was left.
As an old serpent casts his scaly vest,
Wreathes in the Sun, in youthful glory drest;
So, when Alcides' mortal mould resigned,
His better part enlarged, and grew refined: