Torch in hand, Drawn by four steeds, through Elis' streets he came, A conqueror, borne in triumph through the land.
And, waving high the firebrand, dared to claim The God's own homage and a godlike name.
Blind fool and vain! to think with brazen clash And hollow tramp of horn-hoofed steeds, to frame The dread Storm's counterfeit, the thunder's crash, The matchless bolts of Jove, the inimitable flash.
LXXIX.

"But lo! his bolt, no smoky torch of pine, The Sire omnipotent through darkness sped, And hurled him headlong with the blast divine.
There, too, lay Tityos, nine roods outspread, Nursling of earth.

Hook-beaked, a vulture dread, Pecking the deathless liver, plied his quest, And probed the entrails and the heart, that bred Immortal pain, and burrowed in his breast.
The torturing growth goes on, the fibres never rest.
LXXX.

"Why now those ancient Lapithae recall, Ixion and Pirithous?
There in sight The black rock frowns, and ever threats to fall.
On golden pillars shine the couches bright, And royal feasts their longing eyes invite.
But lo, the eldest of the Furies' band Sits by, and oft uprising in her might, Warns from the banquet, with uplifted hand, And thunders in their ears, and waves a flaming brand.
LXXXI.

"Those, who with hate a brother's love repaid, Or drove a parent outcast from their door, Or, weaving fraud, their client's trust betrayed; Those, who--the most in number--brooded o'er Their gold, nor gave to kinsmen of their store; Those, who for foul adultery were slain, Who followed treason's banner, or forswore Their plighted oath to masters, here remain, And, pent in dungeons deep, await their doom of pain.
LXXXII.