When Lychas, by the command of Dejanira, had brought the fatal scarf, and
Hercules became aware of its dreadful power, he seized the messenger, and
hurled him into the sea with fearful violence.
[Illustration]
In vain did he attempt to pull it off, he only tore with it masses of
flesh. In the midst of his miserable tortures, his groans of anguish were
mixed with imprecations on the credulity of Dejanira, and the jealousy and
hatred of Juno, to whom he attributed all his pains.
"Then lifting both his hands aloft, he cries,
'Glut thy revenge, dread empress of the skies;
Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart,
Look down with pleasure and enjoy my smart;
Or, if e'er pity moved a hostile breast
For here I stand thy enemy profest;'
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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:
August his visage shone; almighty Jove,
In his swift car his honoured offspring drove:
High o'er the hollow clouds the coursers fly,
And lodge the hero in the starry sky."