And ev’n when plunged beneath, on her he raves,
Murmuring Alcyone below the waves:
At last a falling billow stops, his breath,
Breaks o’er his head, and whelms him underneath.
Bright Lucifer unlike himself appears
That night, his heavenly form obscured with tears,
And since he was forbid to leave the skies,
He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes.
Meantime Alcyone (his fate unknown)
Computes how many nights he had been gone:
Observes the waning moon with hourly view,
Numbers her age, and wishes for a new;
Against the promised time provides with care,
And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear;
And for herself employs another loom,
New dress’d to meet her lord returning home,
Flattering her heart with joys that never were to come:
She fumed the temples with an odorous flame,
And oft before the sacred altars came,
To pray for him, who was an empty name.
All powers implored, but far above the rest
To Juno she her pious vows address’d,
Her much-loved lord from perils to protect,
And safe o’er seas his voyage to direct:
Then pray’d, that she might still possess his heart,
And no pretending rival share a part.
This last petition heard of all her prayer,
The rest, dispersed by winds, were lost in air.
But she, the goddess of the nuptial bed,
Tired with her vain devotions for the dead,
Resolved the tainted hand should be repell’d,
Which incense offer’d, and her altar held.
Then Iris thus bespoke: “Thou faithful maid,
By whom thy queen’s commands are well convey’d,
Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the god,
Who rules the night by visions with a nod,
Prepare a dream, in figure and in form
Resembling him who perish’d in the storm:
This form before Alcyone present,
To make her certain of the sad event.”
Indued with robes of various hue, she flies,
And flying draws an arch, (a segment of the skies,)
Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep
Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.
Near the Cimmerians, in his dark abode,
Deep in a cavern dwells the drowsy god,
Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon:
But lazy vapours round the region fly,
Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky;
No crowing cock does there his wings display,
Nor with his horny bill provoke the day,
Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace,
Nor beast of nature, nor the tame are nigh,
Nor trees with tempests rock’d, nor human cry,
But safe repose, without an air of breath,
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.
An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow
Arising upward from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o’er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grow,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And, passing, sheds it on the silent plains.
No door there was, the unguarded house to keep,
On creaking hinges turn’d, to break his sleep.
But in the gloomy court was raised a bed,
Stuff’d with black plumes, and on an ebon ’sted;
Black was the covering too, where lay the god,
And slept supine, his limbs display’d abroad;
About his head fantastic visions fly,
Which various images of things supply,
And mock their forms, the leaves on trees not more,
Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.
The virgin entering bright, indulged the day
To the brown cave, and brush’d the dreams away,
The god, disturb’d with this new glare of light,
Cast sudden on his face, unseal’d his sight,
And raised his tardy head, which sunk again,
And, sinking, on his bosom knock’d his chin;
At length shook off himself, and ask’d the dame
(And asking yawn’d) for what intent she came.
To whom the goddess thus: “Oh sacred rest,
Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the powers the best!
Oh peace of mind! repairer of decay!
Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day,
Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away!
Adorn a dream, expressing human form,
The shape of him who suffer’d in the storm,
And send it flitting to the Trachin court,
The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report;
Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand,
Who begs a vain relief at Juno’s hand.”
She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep,
Unable to support the fumes of sleep,
But fled, returning by the way she went,
And swerved along her bow with swift ascent.
The god, uneasy till he slept again,
Resolved at once to rid himself of pain;
And, though against his custom, call’d aloud,
Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd;
Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express’d
The shape of man, and imitated best;
The walk, the words, the gesture, could supply,
The habit mimic, and the mien bely;
Plays well, but all his action is confined,
Extending not beyond our humankind.
Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes,
And dreadful images, and monster shapes;
This demon, Icelos, in heaven’s high hall,
The gods have named, but men Phobetor call.
A third is Phantasus, whose actions roll
On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul;
Earth, fruits, and flowers, he represents in dreams,
And solid rocks unmoved, and running streams.
These three to kings and chiefs their scenes display,
The rest before the ignoble commons play.
Of these the chosen Morpheus is despatch’d,
Which done, the lazy monarch, overwatch’d,
Down from his propping elbow drops his head,
Dissolved in sleep, and shrinks within his bed.
Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepared,
So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard.
To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade
Through air his momentary journey made;
Then lays aside the steerage of his wings,
Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king’s;
And, pale as death, despoil’d of his array,
Into the queen’s apartment takes his way,
And stands before the bed at dawn of day:
Unmoved his eyes, and wet his beard appears,
And shedding vain, but seeming real, tears,
The briny waters dropping from his hairs;
Then, staring on her with a ghastly look,
And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke:
“Know’st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife?
Or are my features perish’d with my life?
Look once again, and for thy husband lost,
Lo! all that’s left of him, thy husband’s ghost!
Thy vows for my return were all in vain,
The stormy south o’ertook us in the main,
And never shalt thou see thy living lord again.
Bear witness Heaven, I call’d on thee in death,
And, while I call’d, a billow stopp’d my breath.
Think not that flying fame reports my
