This Demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high Hall
The Gods have nam'd; but Men Phobetor call.
A third is Phantasus, whose Actions roul
On meaner Thoughts, and Things devoid of Soul;
Earth, Fruits, and Flow'rs he represents in Dreams,
And solid Rocks unmov'd, and running Streams.
These three to Kings, and Chiefs their Scenes display,
The rest before th' ignoble Commons play.
Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd;
Which done, the lazy Monarch, over-watch'd,
Down from his propping Elbow drops his Head,
Dissolv'd in Sleep, and shrinks within his Bed.
Darkling the Demon glides, for Flight prepar'd,
So soft, that scarce his fanning Wings are heard.
To Trachin, swift as Thought, the flitting Shade,
Thro' Air his momentary Journey made:
Then lays aside the Steerage of his Wings,
Forsakes his proper Form, assumes the King's;
And pale, as Death, despoil'd of his Array,
Into the Queen's Apartment takes his way,
And stands before the Bed at Dawn of Day:
Unmov'd his Eyes, and wet his Beard appears;
And shedding vain, but seeming real Tears;
The briny Water dropping from his Hairs.
Then staring on her with a ghastly Look,
And hollow Voice, he thus the Queen bespoke.
Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy Wife?
Or are my Features perish'd with my Life?
Look once again, and for thy Husband lost,
Lo all that's left of him, thy Husband's Ghost!
Thy Vows for my Return were all in vain,
The stormy South o'ertook us in the Main,
And never shalt thou see thy living Lord again.
Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in Death,
And while I call'd, a Billow stop'd my Breath.
Think
