University of Virginia Library

ACT I

Enter Chorus of Oceanides, with baskets.

OCEANIDES.

[1]
Gay and lovely is earth, man's decorate dwelling;
With fresh beauty ever varying hour to hour.
As now bathed in azure joy she awakeneth
With bright morn to the sun's life-giving effluence,
Or sunk into solemn darkness aneath the stars
In mysterious awe slumbereth out the night,
Then from darkness again plunging again to day;
Like dolphins in a swift herd that accompany
Poseidon's chariot when he rebukes the waves.
But no country to me 'neath the enarching air
Is fair as Sicily's flowery fruitful isle:
Always lovely, whether winter adorn the hills
With his silvery snow, or generous summer
Outpour her heavy gold on the river-valleys.
Her rare beauty giveth gaiety unto man,
A delite dear to immortals.

2
And one season of all chiefly deliteth us,
When fair Spring is afield. O happy is the Spring!
Now birds early arouse their pretty minstreling;
Now down its rocky hill murmureth ev'ry rill;
Now all bursteth anew, wantoning in the dew
Their bells of bonny blue, their chalices honey'd.
Unkind frost is away; now sunny is the day;
Now man thinketh aright, Life it is all delite.
Now maids playfully dance o'er enamel'd meadows,
And with goldy blossom deck forehead and bosom;
While old Pan rollicketh thro' the budding shadows,
Voicing his merry reed, laughing aloud to lead
The echoes madly rejoicing.

3
We be Oceanids, Persephone's lovers,
Who all came hurrying joyfully from the sea
Ere daybreak to obey her beloved summons.
At her fancy to pluck these violets, lilies,
Windflow'rs and daffodils, all for a festival
Whereat she will adorn Zeuses honour'd banner.
And with Persephone there cometh Artemis
And grave Pallas . . . Hilloo! already they approach!
Haste, haste! stoop to gather! seem busy ev'ryone!
Crowd all your wicker arcs with the meadow-lilies;
Lest our disreverenc'd deity should rebuke
The divine children of Ocean.

[Enter Athena, Persephone, and Artemis. Persephone has a basket half fill'd with gather'd flowers.]
ATHENA.
These then are Enna's flowery fields, and here
In midmost isle the garden of thy choice?

PERSEPHONE.
Is not all as I promist? Feel ye not
Your earthborn ecstasy concenter'd here?
Tell me, Athena, of thy wisdom, whence
Cometh this joy of earth, this penetrant
Palpitant exultation so unlike
The balanc't calm of high Olympian state?
Is't in the air, the tinted atmosphere
Whose gauzy veil, thrown on the hills, will paint
Their features, changing with the gradual day,
Rosy or azure, clouded now, and now
Again afire? Or is it that the sun's
Electric beams—which shot in circling fans
Whirl all things with them—as they strike the earth
Excite her yearning heart, till stir'd beneath
The rocks and silent plains, she cannot hold
Her fond desires, but sends them bursting forth
In scents and colour'd blossoms of the spring?—
Breathes it not in the flowers?

Ath.
Fair are the flowers,
Dear child; and yet to me far lovelier
Than all their beauty is thy love for them.
Whate'er I love, I contemplate my love
More than the object, and am so rejoic'd.
For life is one, and like a level sea
Life's flood of joy. Thou wond'rest at the flowers,
But I would teach thee wonder of thy wonder:
Would shew thee beauty in the desert-sand,
The worth of things unreckt of, and the truth
That thy desire and love may spring of evil
And ugliness, and that Earth's ecstasy
May dwell in darkness also, in sorrow and tears.

Per.
I'd not believe it: why then should we pluck
The flowers and not the stalks without the flowers?
Or do thy stones breathe scent? Would not men laugh
To see the banner of almighty Zeus
Adorn'd with ragged roots and straws?—Dear Artemis,
How lovest thou the flowers?

ARTEMIS.
I'll love them better
Ever for thy sake, Cora; but for me
The joy of Earth is in the breath of life
And animal motions: nor are flowery sweets
Dear as the scent of life. This petal'd cup,
What is it by the wild fawn's liquid eye
Eloquent as love-music 'neath the moon?
Nay, not a flower in all thy garden here,
Nor wer't a thousand-thousand-fold enhanc't
In every charm, but thou wouldst turn from it
To view the antler'd stag, that in the glade
With the coy gaze of his majestic fear
Faced thee a moment ere he turn'd to fly.

Per.
But why, then, hunt and kill what thou so lovest?

Ar.
Dost thou not pluck thy flowers?

Per.
'Tis not the same.
Thy victims fly for life: they pant, they scream.

Ar.
Were they not mortal, sweet, I coud not kill them.
They kill each other in their lust for life;
Nay, cruelly persecute their blemisht kin:
And they that thus are exiled from the herd
Slink heart-brok'n to sepulchral solitudes,
Defenceless and dishonour'd; there to fall
Prey to the hungry glutton of the cave,
Or stand in mute pain lingering, till they drop
In their last lair upon the ancestral bones.

Per.
What is it that offends me?

Ath.
'Tis Pity, child,
The mortal thought that clouds the brow of man
With dark reserve, or poisoning all delite
Drives him upon his knees in tearful prayer
To avert his momentary qualms: till Zeus
At his reiterated plaint grows wrath,
And burdens with fresh curse the curse of care.
And they that haunt with men are apt to take
Infection of his mind: thy mighty mother
Leans to his tenderness.

Per.
How should man, dwelling
On earth that is so gay, himself be sad?
Is not earth gay? Look on the sea, the sky,
The flowers!

Ath.
'Tis sad to him because 'tis gay.—
For whether he consider how the flowers,
—Thy miracles of beauty above praise,—
Are wither'd in the moment of their glory,
So that of all the mounting summer's wealth
The show is chang'd each day, and each day dies,
Of no more count in Nature's estimate
Than crowded bubbles of the fighting foam:
Or whether 'tis the sea, whose azure waves
Play'd in the same infinity of motion
Ages ere he beheld it, and will play
For ages after him;—alike 'tis sad
To read how beauty dies and he must die.

Per.
Were I a man, I would not worship thee,
Thou cold essential wisdom. If, as thou say'st,
Thought makes men sorrowful, why help his thought
To quench enjoyment, who might else as I
Revel among bright things, and feast his sense
With beauty well-discern'd? Nay, why came ye
To share my pastime? Ye love not the flowers.

Ath.
Indeed I love thee, child; and love thy flowers,—
Nor less for loving wisely. All emotions,
Whether of gods or men, all loves and passions,
Are of two kinds; they are either inform'd by wisdom,
To reason obedient,—or they are unconducted,
Flames of the burning life. The brutes of earth
And Pan their master know these last; the first
Are seen in me: betwixt the extremes there lie
Innumerable alloys and all of evil.

Per.
Nay, and I guess your purpose with me well:
I am a child, and ye would nurse me up
A pupil in your school. I know ye twain
Of all the immortals are at one in this;
Ye wage of cold disdain a bitter feud
With Aphrodite, and ye fear for me,
Lest she should draw me to her wanton way.
Fear not: my party is taken. Hark! I'll tell
What I have chosen, what mankind shall hold
Devote and consecrate to me on earth:
It is the flowers: but only among the flowers
Those that men love for beauty, scent, or hue,
Having no other uses: I have found
Demeter, my good mother, heeds them not.—
She loves vines, olives, orchards, ‘the rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas,’
But for the idle flowers she hath little care:
She will resign them willingly. And think not,
Thou wise Athena, I shall go unhonour'd,
Or rank a meaner goddess unto man.
His spirit setteth beauty before wisdom,
Pleasures above necessities, and thus
He ever adoreth flowers. Nor this I guess
Where rich men only and superfluous kings
Around their palaces reform the land
To terraces and level lawns, whereon
Appointed slaves are told, to tend and feed
Lilies and roses and all rarest plants
Fetch'd from all lands; that they—these lordly men—
'Twixt flaunting avenues and wafted odours
May pace in indolence: this is their bliss;
This first they do: and after, it may be,
Within their garden set their academe:—
But in the poorest villages, around
The meanest cottage, where no other solace
Comforts the eye, some simple gaiety
Of flowers in tended garden is seen; some pinks,
Tulips, or crocuses that edge the path;
Where oft at eve the grateful labourer
Sits in his jasmin'd porch, and takes the sun:
And even the children, that half-naked go,
Have posies in their hands, and of themselves
Will choose a queen in whom to honour Spring,
Dancing before her garlanded with may.
The cowslip makes them truant, they forget
The hour of hunger and their homely feast
So they may cull the delicate primrose,
Sealing their birthright with the touch of beauty;
With unconsider'd hecatombs assuring
Their dim sense of immortal mystery.—
Yea, rich and poor, from cradle unto grave
All men shall love me, shall adore my name,
And heap my everlasting shrine with flowers.

Ath.
Thou sayest rightly thou art a child. May Zeus
Give thee a better province than thy thought.

[Music heard.
Ar.
Listen! the nymphs are dancing. Let us go! [They move off.

Come, Cora; wilt thou learn a hunting dance?
I'll teach thee.

Per.
Can I learn thy hunter-step
Without thy bare legs and well-buskin'd feet?

Ar.
Give me thy hand.

Per.
Stay! stay! I have left my flowers.
I follow. [Exeunt Athena and Artemis.
[Persephone returning to right slowly.

They understand not—Now, praise be to Zeus,
That, tho' I sprang not from his head, I know
Something that Pallas knows not. [She has come to where her basket lies. In stooping towards it she kneels to pluck a flower: and then comes to sit on a bank with the basket in hand on her knees, facing the audience.]

Thou tiny flower!
Art thou not wise?
Who taught thee else, thou frail anemone,
Thy starry notion, thy wind-wavering motion,
Thy complex of chaste beauty, unimagin'd
Till thou art seen?—And how so wisely, thou,
Indifferent to the number of thy rays,
While others are so strict? This six-leaved tulip,
—He would not risk a seventh for all his worth,—
He thought to attain unique magnificence
By sheer simplicity—a pointed oval
Bare on a stalk erect: and yet, grown old
He will his young idea quite abandon,
In his dishevel'd fury wantoning
Beyond belief . . . Some are four-leaved: this poppy
Will have but four. He, like a hurried thief,
Stuffs his rich silks into too small a bag—
I think he watch'd a summer-butterfly
Creep out all crumpled from his winter-case,
Trusting the sun to smooth his tender tissue
And sleek the velvet of his painted wings:—
And so doth he.—Between such different schemes,
Such widely varied loveliness, how choose?
Yet loving all, one should be most belov'd,
Most intimately mine; to mortal men
My emblem: tho' I never find in one
The sum of all distinctions.—Rose were best:
But she is passion's darling, and unkind
To handle—set her by.—Choosing for odour,
The violet were mine—men call her modest,
Because she hides, and when in company
Lacks manner and the assertive style of worth:—
While this narcissus here scorns modesty,
Will stand up what she is, tho' something prim:
Her scent, a saturation of one tone,
Like her plain symmetry, leaves nought to fancy:—
Whereas this iris,—she outvieth man's
Excellent artistry; elaboration
Confounded with simplicity, till none
Can tell which sprang of which. Coud I but find
A scented iris, I should be content:
Yet men would call me proud: Iris is Pride.—
To-day I'll favour thee, sweet violet;
Thou canst live in my bosom. I'll not wrong thee
Wearing thee in Olympus.—Help! help! Ay me!

[Persephone rises to her feet, and amidst a contrivance of confused darkness Hades is seen rushing from behind. He seizes her and drags her backward. Her basket is thrown up and the flowers scattered.]