“Ah me! (returns the queen) when from this shore Ulysses sail’d, then beauty was no more! The gods decreed these eyes no more should keep Their wonted grace, but only serve to weep. Should he return, whate’er my beauties prove, My virtues last; my brightest charm is love. Now, grief, thou all art mine! the gods o’ercast My soul with woes, that long, ah long must last! Too faithfully my heart retains the day That sadly tore my royal lord away: He grasp’d my hand, and, ‘O, my spouse! I leave Thy arms (he cried), perhaps to find a grave: Fame speaks the Trojans bold; they boast the skill To give the feather’d arrow wings to kill, To dart the spear, and guide the rushing car With dreadful inroad through the walks of war. My sentence is gone forth, and ’tis decreed Perhaps by righteous Heaven that I must bleed! My father, mother, all I trust to three; To them, to them, transfer the love of me: But, when my son grows man, the royal sway Resign, and happy be thy bridal day!’ Such were his words; and Hymen now prepares To light his torch, and give me up to cares; The afflictive hand of wrathful Jove to bear: A wretch the most complete that breathes the air! Fall’n e’en below the rights to woman due! Careless to please, with insolence ye woo! The generous lovers, studious to succeed, Bid their whole herds and flocks in banquets bleed; By precious gifts the vow sincere display: You, only you, make her ye love your prey.” Well-pleased Ulysses hears his queen deceive The suitor-train, and raise a thirst to give: False hopes she kindles, but those hopes betray, And promise, yet elude, the bridal day. While yet she speaks, the gay Antinous cries: “Offspring of kings, and more than woman wise! ’Tis right; ’tis man’s prerogative to give, And custom bids thee without shame receive; Yet never, never, from thy dome we move, Till Hymen lights the torch of spousal love.” The peers despatch’d their heralds to convey The gifts of love; with speed they take the way. A robe Antinous gives of shining dyes, The varying hues in gay confusion rise Rich from the artist’s hand! Twelve clasps of gold Close to the lessening waist the vest infold! Down from the swelling loins the vest unbound Floats in bright waves redundant o’er the ground, A bracelet rich with gold, with amber gay, That shot effulgence like the solar ray, Eurymachus presents: and ear-rings bright, With triple stars, that cast a trembling light. Pisander bears a necklace wrought with art: And every peer, expressive of his heart, A gift bestows: this done, the queen ascends, And slow behind her damsel train attends. Then to the dance they form the vocal strain, Till Hesperus leads forth the starry train; And now he raises, as the daylight fades, His golden circlet in the deepening shades: Three vases heap’d with copious fires display O’er all the palace a fictitious day; From space to space the torch wide-beaming burns, And sprightly damsels trim the rays by turns.