Recitative

IPHIS
Say, my dear mother, whence these piercing cries
That force me, like a frighted bird to fly
My place of rest?

STORGÈ
For thee I fear, my child;
Such ghastly dreams last night surpris'd my soul.

IPHIS
Heed not these black illusions of the night,
The mocking of unquiet slumbers, heed them not.
My father, touch'd with a diviner fire,
Already seems to triumph in success,
Nor doubt I but Jehovah hears our pray'rs.