"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn
Performed, my slaughtered lord have I required;
And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn,
Him of the infernal gods have I desired:
Celestial pity I again implore;-
Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows,
And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy!
What doth she look on-whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence-his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not 'tis he!
And a god leads him-winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamia, that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
Accept the gift; behold him face to face!
Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to reunite,
And reassume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon,-and blessed a sad abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect:-Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive,
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain,