To calm the queen, the phantom sister flies.

Swift on the regal dome, descending right,

The bolted valves are pervious to her flight.

Close to her head the pleasing vision stands,

And thus performs Minerva’s high commands


“O why, Penelope, this causeless fear,

To render sleep’s soft blessing unsincere?

Alike devote to sorrow’s dire extreme

The day-reflection, and the midnight-dream!

Thy son the gods propitious will restore,

And bid thee cease his absence to deplore.”


To whom the queen (whilst yet in pensive mind

Was in the silent gates of sleep confined):

“O sister to my soul forever dear,

Why this first visit to reprove my fear?

How in a realm so distant should you know

From what deep source my ceaseless sorrows flow?

To all my hope my royal lord is lost,

His country’s buckler, and the Grecian boast;

And with consummate woe to weigh me down,

The heir of all his honours and his crown,

My darling son is fled! an easy prey

To the fierce storms, or men more fierce than they;

Who, in a league of blood associates sworn,

Will intercept the unwary youth’s return.”


“Courage resume (the shadowy form replied);

In the protecting care of Heaven confide;

On him attends the blue eyed martial maid:

What earthly can implore a surer aid?

Me now the guardian goddess deigns to send,

To bid thee patient his return attend.”


The queen replies: “If in the blest abodes,

A goddess, thou hast commerce with the gods;

Say, breathes my lord the blissful realm of light,

Or lies he wrapp’d in ever-during night?”


“Inquire not of his doom, (the phantom cries,)

I speak not all the counsel of the skies;

Nor must indulge with vain discourse, or long,

The windy satisfaction of the tongue.”


Swift through the valves the visionary fair

Repass’d, and viewless mix’d with common air.

The queen awakes, deliver’d of her woes;

With florid joy her heart dilating glows:

The vision, manifest of future fate,