Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone.
Phœbus.
The wizard bird has sung the fumes away.
Selene.
Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more.
Phœbus [approaching her, and in a confidential tone].
I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you—yes, even of gratification, my sister—that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power
of temporarily relieving it and raising it.
[Selene, manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on the left. Phœbus, turning again to the moon,]
I have observed that this species of mysterious agency has a very salutary effect upon the more melancholy of our female divinities. They are satisfied if they have the felicity of waiting for something which they cannot be certain of realising, and which they attribute to a cause impossible to investigate. [To Selene, raising his voice.] Whither do you go, my sister?