Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill, the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very considerable skill in warbling. But the moon--what is happening to _it_? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This little bird's incantation has, without question, produced this fortunate effect. This little bird, halfway on the road between the nightingale and the cicada, is doubtless an enchanter, and one whose art possesses a more than respectable property. My sister's attention should be drawn to this highly interesting circumstance. Selene! Selene! [_He calls and waits. From the upper woods_ SELENE _slowly descends, wrapped in long white garments_.] PHOEBUS. Sister, behold the throne that once was thine. SELENE. And now, a rocking cinder, fouls the skies. PHOEBUS. A magian sweeps its filthy ash away. SELENE. There is no magic in the bankrupt world. PHOEBUS. Nay, did'st thou hear this twittering peal of song? SELENE. Some noise I heard; this glen is full of sounds. PHOEBUS. Fling back thy veil, and staunch thy tears, and gaze. SELENE. At thee, my brother, not at my darkened orb. PHOEBUS. Gaze then at me. What seest thou in mine eyes? SELENE. Foul ruddy gleams from what was lately pure. PHOEBUS. Nay, but thou gazest not. Look up, look at me! SELENE. But on thy sacred eyeballs fume turns fire. PHOEBUS. Nay, then, turn once and see thy very moon. SELENE [_turning round_]. Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone. PHOEBUS. The wizard bird has sung the fumes away. SELENE. Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more. PHOEBUS [_approaching her, and in a confidential tone_]. I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you--yes, even of gratification, my sister--that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power of temporarily relieving it and raising it. [SELENE, _manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on the left_. PHOEBUS, _turning again to the moon_,]