“Then instant to the bath (the monarch cries), Bid the gay youth and sprightly virgins rise, Thence all descend in pomp and proud array, And bid the dome resound the mirthful lay; While the sweet lyrist airs of rapture sings, And forms the dance responsive to the strings, That hence the eluded passengers may say, ‘Lo! the queen weds! we hear the spousal lay!’ The suitor’s death, unknown, till we remove Far from the court, and act inspired by Jove.” Thus spoke the king: the observant train obey, At once they bathe, and dress in proud array: The lyrist strikes the string; gay youths advance, And fair-zoned damsels form the sprightly dance. The voice, attuned to instrumental sounds, Ascends the roof, the vaulted roof rebounds; Not unobserved: the Greeks eluded say, “Lo! the queen weds, we hear the spousal lay! Inconstant! to admit the bridal hour.” Thus they—but nobly chaste she weds no more. Meanwhile the wearied king the bath ascends; With faithful cares Eurynome attends, O’er every limb a shower of fragrance sheds; Then, dress’d in pomp, magnificent he treads. The warrior-goddess gives his frame to shine With majesty enlarged, and grace divine. Back from his brows in wavy ringlets fly His thick large locks of hyacinthine dye. As by some artist to whom Vulcan gives His heavenly skill, a breathing image lives; By Pallas taught, he frames the wondrous mould, And the pale silver glows with fusile gold: So Pallas his heroic form improves With bloom divine, and like a god he moves! More high he treads, and issuing forth in state, Radiant before his gazing consort sate. “And, O my queen! (he cries) what power above Has steel’d that heart, averse to spousal love? Canst thou, Penelope, when heaven restores Thy lost Ulysses to his native shores, Canst thou, O cruel! unconcern’d survey Thy lost Ulysses, on this signal day? Haste, Euryclea, and despatchful spread For me, and me alone, the imperial bed, My weary nature craves the balm of rest. But Heaven with adamant has arm’d her breast.” “Ah no! (she cries) a tender heart I bear, A foe to pride: no adamant is there; And now, e’en now it melts! for sure I see Once more Ulysses my beloved in thee! Fix’d in my soul, as when he sailed to Troy, His image dwells: then haste the bed of joy, Haste, from the bridal bower the bed translate, Fram’d by his hand, and be it dress’d in state!”