But she, the goddess of the nuptial bed, Tired with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolved the tainted hand should be repell’d, Which incense offer’d, and her altar held. Then Iris thus bespoke: “Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen’s commands are well convey’d, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the god, Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure and in form Resembling him who perish’d in the storm: This form before Alcyone present, To make her certain of the sad event.”

Indued with robes of various hue, she flies, And flying draws an arch, (a segment of the skies,) Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.