SCENE IV.
THE SICILIAN SHORE.
Ceres, Fountain Nymphs.
CERES.
Inconstant waves, farewell: I love you not:
Earth, I salute thee, fruitful, though in sorrow.
Still on! my search, though vain, is all my rest.
One flower of hers, to this sad bosom folded,
Will give it back its old Olympian calm.
The nymphs sing low: O for thy songs, Proserpine,
That woke the ice-bound streams, while old boughs leaped,
Though dead, into the glory of fresh blossoms!
(Fountain Nymphs sing.)
1
Proserpina was lying
Against her ebon throne;
Alternating long sighing
With a shudder and a moan:
The dull Lethean river,
Whose breath the nightshade breeds,
Went toiling on for ever
Through the forest of its reeds:
‘O mother, I was playing
'Mid the soft Sicilian air—
Forever must I languish
In this empire of Despair!’
2
With wide and sable gleaming,
In chains decreed of old,
Through gray morasses streaming,
That ancient river rolled:
The hemlock borders under
Drave the voluminous flood,
With a low, soft, sleepy thunder
That thrilled the stagnant blood:
‘O mother, I was playing
'Mid the soft Sicilian air—
Forever must I languish
In this empire of Despair!’
3
No bird was there to warble,
The wind was void of sound;
Vast caves of jet-black marble
Were yawning all around;
No placid Heaven, blue-tented,
Its dome above her spread;
Like clouds the Souls tormented
Were drifting overhead:
‘O mother I was playing
'Mid the soft Sicilian air—
Forever must I languish
In this empire of Despair!’
4
Darkness but faintly chequered
Possessed that region dim,
Save one white cloud that flickered
Above the horizon's rim;
Under the dreary lustre
It cast in flakes and showers
Up rose afar the cluster
Of Pluto's palace towers:
‘O mother, I was playing
'Mid the soft Sicilian air—
Forever must I languish
In this empire of Despair!’
5
Proserpina for ever
Thereon her large eyes kept,
While gusts from that cold river
Her tresses backward swept;
Ever in sadness lying
Against her ebon throne,
With her melancholy sighing
Half smothered in a moan:
‘O mother, I was playing
'Mid the soft Sicilian air—
Must I languish here forever
In this empire of Despair!’
CERES.
O Nymphs, where found you that despondent song?
And why this funeral chime? She is immortal.
NYMPHS.
Immortal truly, venerable Goddess!
And yet in Erebus she dwells; and plays
No more; no flowers to play with finds she there.
CERES.
How know you this?
NYMPHS.
Last eve we wandered forth,
By fugitive rainbows lured and rain-washed grass,
To that deep valley where we lost our playmate;
And for the first time past it. In one spot
We found, with joy astonished, crowds of flowers;
Flowers of all kinds, each larger than its kind,
And brighter; wandering here and there among them,
Behold two mighty chariot tracks! deep fissures,
Burning and black, to where the opposing bank
Locked in and barred the vale: the rocks were split;
Dull vapours hovering o'er them. In a moment
The truth flashed on us, and we heard, yea felt
Once more, that subterraneous thunder roll.
The King of Darkness, Monarch sole below,
Looked up and saw thy child, and thirsted for her;
And snatched her to his shades:—In Erebus
Thy daughter dwells.
CERES.
No song, no fable this!
Ah flower! pure lily among the unfruitful shades!
White lonely lamp of all the Elysian darkness!
Ah child! the daughter of an unblest fate,
Thou hast no Mother now: thou hast forgotten
That e'er thou hadst a Mother—Woe, woe, woe!
The imperial diadem doth mock that brow,
The sceptre doth subdue that little hand
More than the Shades, thy subjects! Gentle Nymphs,
Let me behold that spot.
FIRST NYMPH.
With slow, sad foot
(On gray autumnal eves, the Nymphs themselves
With slow, sad foot, o'er the dim grass steal on)
Advance; no bounding step, fair sister Nymphs;
No bounding step, or jubilant, reckless song.
Lo, there the gleam! a breeze, a sigh divine
Is ever sweeping o'er those tremulous flowers!
Troubling their dews that fall not, held, like tears
In melancholy eyes—O fair, fair flowers!
Ye, as she dropped you, instantly took root,
And fade not ever. Immortality
Ye caught from the last pressure of those hands;
Immortal were ye though the world should die.
NYMPHS.
First Semichorus.
Looks divine, divinely chastened,
Sad eyes, on the saddened ground
As by spells eternal fastened,
Folded hands, and locks unbound!
Deeper, every moment deeper,
Pierce those eyes her daughter's shroud;
The earth to this immortal weeper
Grows half transparent as a cloud;
And her ears even now are ringing
With old Lethe's mournful singing.
Second Semichorus.
But see, on high the blue is riven!
That radiance! Hermes it must be!
Around him smiles the flattered Heaven;
No Apollonian flight hath he
Right onward, nor the stormy wrath
On Jove's great Eagle earthward rushing,
But winds along in serpent path
Through maiden airs around him flushing,
With wingèd feet and rod upholden,
Enwreathed with mild Persuasions golden.
HERMES.
Hermes, mild herald of the Gods, I come,
Bearing the grace of Jove, upon my lips
Distilled—high kiss of heavenly benediction.
Goddess to Mortals and Immortals dear,
Be of good cheer: Proserpina, beloved
Of all the blest Olympians, sceptred sits
In Tartarus; sole pride of him that sways
The world heroic of Departed Souls;
A child although a Queen; and, though a spouse,
Yet virgin ever; tempering the deep heart
Of Pluto, and to all the Shades as dear
As Dian to the night, or to the waves
The foam-dividing star of Aphrodite.
Sacred and well beloved—a Mystery—
Fares she not well? Maternal Goddess! raise
The large dejected orbs of thy fair eyes,
And gaze on him upon whose brow doth meet
The light of all the Gods giving command:
Look up and speak!
CERES.
Mild herald Mercury!
Thy voice is in mine ears; winged and sweet
Ever its tones; brightening all hearts, like Heaven
When Jove looks up: but now, unwonted softness
Melts through their pauses. Dost thou pity me?
Then herald God, auspicious guide of Shades,
Mighty art thou in the Unbeloved Abode;
Restore, restore my child!
HERMES.
Not comfort only,
Deep-bosomed Goddess, grave, and dulcet-voiced,
But aid I bear: and need there is of both.
Alone she sits beyond the utmost bound
Of laughter from the Gods, or shaft Phœbean,
And thou art justly restless for thine own.
Hear then the ordinance of Jove; descend!
Yon rock shall like a billow arch thy way;
Descend into the Stygian waste; behold
Once more thy tender daughter face to face;
Kiss her once more, once more upon thy knee
And in thine arms possess her. This is much:
Yet more: if seed not yet of flower or fruit
Unblessed have touched her lips, henceforth and ever
With thee she dwells in sweet society.
Descend! the Will of Jove, before thee running,
Makes smooth thy path, and the Caducean charm
Waved from this wand, around thy feet shall beckon
A quire of bright Immortals fit to grace
The steps of a departing Deity.
Ethereal Seasons! from the snowy clouds,
Your ambient nests on cold autumnal days,
Hover once more about this spot; and ye
Gift-feathered Hours, at Heaven's wide gate for ever
On broad and billowy wing suspense, the cord
Aerial, that detains you, bursting, fly
With unreverting faces to the earth,
And breathe a sudden spring on valley and plain:
And ye, infantine Zephyrs, on whose lips
The Gods have breathed; thou too, delight of Heaven,
Iris! descend; and o'er the shadowy glen
Thy many-coloured scarf from both thy hands
Fling wide, and cast the brightest of thy smiles
Upon the head of this descending Power.
FIRST NYMPH.
Behold! into the chasm she walks.
SECOND NYMPH.
But lo!
How rich a splendour burns on yonder bank!
The trees grow lustrous as Apollo's locks;
Between the arch of yon suspended bow
And the green hollow, flows a low deep music,
With light songs o'er it playing in wantonness:
Hark, hark, once more.
(The Hours sing.)
Strophe.
A beam on Earth's chill bosom
Falls pointed 'mid her sleep;
And leaf and bud and blossom
Up from their dull trance leap:
That beam at Earth's dim centre
Hath found the mailèd Winter,
And touched his snow-cold lips;
Upon his breast that beam doth rest
And frost-bound finger tips.
Antistrophe.
From deep grass gently heaving
Quick flowers in myriads rise,
A wreath for Winter weaving;
It falls below his eyes!
His old gray beard it covers
Like locks of mirthful lovers;
It makes him laugh with pride,
As he a youth had grown in sooth
And found a youthful Bride.
(The Zephyrs sing.)
Strophe.
The bright-lipped waters troubling
Of the pure Olympian springs,
We caught the airs up-bubbling,
And stayed them with our wings;
From the beginning sealed
Like sweet thoughts unrevealed
Those airs till then lay hid;
Like odours barred in buds yet hard
Or the eye beneath the lid.
Antistrophe.
Our pinions mildly swaying
With an undulating grace
We bid those airs go playing
Over Earth's beaming face:
On the laurel banks new-flowered,
On the ridge of pine dew-showered,
On every leaf and blade
That leaps on wings and all but sings
In sunshine or in shade!
(Hours and Zephyrs sing together.)
Strophe.
Over the olives hovering,
Brushing the myrtle bowers,
Dark ground with blossoms covering,
The Zephyrs and the Hours,
With laugh and gentle mocking
We play, the green boughs rocking,
Above each other rolled
From laurel leaf to laurel leaf,
That sing like tongues of gold!
Antistrophe.
Now like birds fast flitting
On from bough to bough,
Like bees in sunshine knitting
Murmuring mazes now:
Parting oft—oft blending
And for ever sending
Spangled showers around,
With eddying streams of scents and gleams,
And deep Olympian sound.
(Sicilian Nymphs singing.)
First Strophe.
Numbers softer than our own
And in happier circle running
Like Flora's crown or Venus' zone
They are braiding in their cunning.
All the God-througed air is glowing
With a ferment of delight,
All the flowers in rapture blowing
Every moment swell more bright,
And higher round the pale stems clamber
In vermilion wreaths or amber.
First Antistrophe.
Half in terror, half in pleasure,
Little birds on warm boughs waking
Launch abroad a rival measure,
Floral births with songs o'ertaking:
O'er the shadows little lights,
And o'er little lights a shadow
Bound along like gamesome sprites
On the green waves of the meadow;
And new streams are up and boiling,
And new insects round them coiling.
Second Strophe.
On one side a cedarn alley,
On the other a myrrh brake,
Downward streams the mystic valley,
As flushed rivers their path take
By hills their devious waters curbing;
Airs ambrosial forth are swung
From boughs their crimson fruitage orbing
Iris, borne those airs among,
Flings o'er the dim wildernesses
Her illumed dishevelled tresses.
Second Antistrophe.
Through a mist of sunny rays
Gleam bright eyes and pinions shiver;
O'er the mountain's breast of bays
Panting dew-gems bask and quiver;
All the Gods with silent greeting
In this sumptuous harbour met
Make the palace of their meeting
Rich as Juno's cabinet,
Golden-domed and golden-gated,
With sacred pleasures never sated.
Hush—wild song, no more!
Nor dance of lyric lightness—
A shadow from the shore
Steals, and blots the brightness.
Like children tired of play
The splendours melt away:
Trips by each elf—mark! Iris' self
Dissolves in waning whiteness.
IRIS.
I have but leaped from out my airy lustres
To plant my white foot palpably on Earth.
Fair nymphs, this shadow soon, too soon, will reach
The front now bright of that descended Goddess.
Her lost one she hath found—alas, too late:
Seeds of a Stygian fruit have passed her lips!
Three fatal seeds! Proserpina hath sucked
Into her being the dark element.
And yet lament not! Ceres' self shall learn
Comfort and divine solace from her child,
What the Gods could not give, her child, though sad,
Yet fraught with sweetness of Elysian wisdom,
Bestows upon the Mother. From this hour
Let every mortal Mother that hath given
A child from her own heart into the Shades,
Live and take comfort; they shall meet again.
Let every mourner in the Past who buries
An innocent delight, be sure henceforth
That in the Future, a large treasure-house,
It doth await him. Gentle Nymphs, weep not;
Those parted lips, those smooth and candid brows
Were not for mourners fashioned, sigh or shadow,
But for pure breathing of celestial airs,
And gracing a light garland.
NYMPHS.
Mild-eyed Goddess!
Must we no more behold Proserpina?
Must flower-famed Sicily have no more flowers?
IRIS.
I see the end, and therefore I am glad;
I, that look down into the smallest dewdrop,
Yet in my bright arch clasp the end of all:
And, whether I descend, the adorned cradle
Of some young flower to rock, or fatally
To cut the locks of some expiring King,
My task is kind, and Comforter my name.
Fear nought; Proserpina shall rise once more;
For Jove is clement, and a Mother's prayers
Ofttimes of fateful power against the Fates.
One half the year in darkness dwells she throned,
A Queen; one half she plays, a child on Earth,
Flower-crowned, and constant 'mid inconstancy,
Whether Narcissus now, or Daffodil
Her choice persuade; or mysteries in the cups
Of Cowslips through thick honey scarce espied,
Or Primroses moon-lighted all day long,
Or fabled Pansy, or Anemone
Wind-chidden, or the red all-conquering Rose,
Enchain her youthful heart—or other flowers,
Named on the Earth but nameless still in Heaven,
Subdue her, each in turn or all at once.
Mild Nymphs, farewell! To Juno, large-eyed Queen,
Whose Herald fair I boast myself, once more
I speed
(Nymphs descend, singing.)
Strophe.
Proserpina once more
Will come to us a-Maying;
Sicilian meadows o'er
Low-singing and light-playing.
The wintry durance past,
Delight will come at last:
Proserpina will come to us—
Will come to us a-Maying.
Antistrophe.
Sullen skies to-day,
Sunny skies to-morrow;
November steals from May,
And May from her doth borrow;
Griefs—Joys—in Time's strange dance
Interchangeably advance;
The sweetest joys that come to us
Come sweeter for past sorrow.
