To keep his promise he ascends, and shrouds His awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds; While all around, in terrible array, His thunders rattle and his lightnings play; And yet the dazzling lustre to abate, He set not out in all his pomp and state, Clad in the mildest lightning of the skies, And arm’d with thunder of the smallest size: Not those huge bolts by which the giants slain Lay overthrown on the Phlegrean plain; ’Twas of a lesser mould and lighter weight, They call it thunder of a second rate; For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove’s command Temper’d the bolt, and turn’d it to his hand, Work’d up less flame and fury in its make, And quench’d it sooner in the standing lake. Thus dreadfully adorn’d with horror bright, The illustrious god, descending from his height, Came rushing on her in a storm of light.

The mortal dame, too feeble to engage The lightning’s flashes and the thunder’s rage, Consumed amid the glories she desired, And in the terrible embrace expired.