“Imperial dame (the balmy power replies), Great Saturn’s heir, and empress of the skies! O’er other gods I spread my easy chain; The sire of all, old Ocean, owns my reign. And his hush’d waves lie silent on the main. But how, unbidden, shall I dare to steep Jove’s awful temples in the dew of sleep? Long since, too venturous, at thy bold command, On those eternal lids I laid my hand; What time, deserting Ilion’s wasted plain, His conquering son, Alcides, plough’d the main. When lo! the deeps arise, the tempests roar, And drive the hero to the Coan shore: Great Jove, awaking, shook the blest abodes With rising wrath, and tumbled gods on gods; Me chief he sought, and from the realms on high Had hurl’d indignant to the nether sky, But gentle Night, to whom I fled for aid, (The friend of earth and heaven,) her wings display’d; Impower’d the wrath of gods and men to tame, Even Jove revered the venerable dame.” “Vain are thy fears (the queen of heaven replies, And, speaking, rolls her large majestic eyes); Think’st thou that Troy has Jove’s high favour won, Like great Alcides, his all-conquering son? Hear, and obey the mistress of the skies, Nor for the deed expect a vulgar prize; For know, thy loved-one shall be ever thine, The youngest Grace, Pasithaë the divine.”[235] “Swear then (he said) by those tremendous floods That roar through hell, and bind the invoking gods: Let the great parent earth one hand sustain, And stretch the other o’er the sacred main: Call the black Titans, that with Chronos dwell, To hear and witness from the depths of hell; That she, my loved-one, shall be ever mine, The youngest Grace, Pasithaë the divine.” The queen assents, and from the infernal bowers Invokes the sable subtartarean powers, And those who rule the inviolable floods, Whom mortals name the dread Titanian gods. [Illustration: ] SLEEP ESCAPING FROM THE WRATH OF JUPITER Then swift as wind, o’er Lemnos’ smoky isle They wing their way, and Imbrus’ sea-beat soil; Through air, unseen, involved in darkness glide, And light on Lectos, on the point of Ide: (Mother of savages, whose echoing hills Are heard resounding with a hundred rills:) Fair Ida trembles underneath the god; Hush’d are her mountains, and her forests nod. There on a fir, whose spiry branches rise To join its summit to the neighbouring skies; Dark in embowering shade, conceal’d from sight, Sat Sleep, in likeness of the bird of night. (Chalcis his name by those of heavenly birth, But call’d Cymindis by the race of earth.) To Ida’s top successful Juno flies; Great Jove surveys her with desiring eyes: The god, whose lightning sets the heavens on fire, Through all his bosom feels the fierce desire; Fierce as when first by stealth he seized her charms, Mix’d with her soul, and melted in her arms: Fix’d on her eyes he fed his eager look, Then press’d her hand, and thus with transport spoke: “Why comes my goddess from the ethereal sky, And not her steeds and flaming chariot nigh?”