University of Virginia Library

ACT II

CHORUS.

DEMETER
(entering).
Here is the hateful spot, the hollow rock
Whence the fierce ravisher sprang forth— (seeing the nymphs)

Ah! ye!
I know you well: ye are the nymphs of Ocean.
Ye, graceful as your watery names
And idle as the mimic flames
That skip upon his briny floor,
When the hot sun smiteth thereo'er;
Why did ye leave your native waves?
Did false Poseidon, to my hurt
Leagued with my foe, bid you desert
Your opalescent pearly caves,
Your dances on the shelly strand?

Ch.
Poseidon gave us no command,
Lady; it was thy child Persephone,
Whose beauty drew us from the sea.

Dem.
Ill company ye lent, ill-fated guards!
How was she stolen from your distracted eyes?

Ch.
There, where thou standest now, stood she companion'd
By wise Athena and bright Artemis.
We in flower-gathering dance and idle song
Were wander'd off apart; we fear'd no wrong.

Dem.
In heav'n I heard her cry: ye nothing heard?

Ch.
We heard no cry—How coudst thou hear in heaven?
Ask us not of her:—we have nought to tell.—

Dem.
I seek not knowledge of you, for I know.

Ch.
Thou knowest? Ah, mighty Queen, deign then to tell
If thou hast found her. Tell us—tell us—tell!

Dem.
Oh, there are calls that love can hear,
That strike not on the outward ear.
None heard save I: but with a dart
Of lightning-pain it pierc'd my heart,
That call for aid, that cry of fear.
It echo'd from the mountain-steeps
Down to the dark of Ocean-deeps;
O'er all the isle, from ev'ry hill
It pierc'd my heart and echoes still,
Ay me! Ay me!

Ch.
Where is she, O mighty Queen?—Tell us—O tell!—

Dem.
Swift unto earth, in frenzy led
By Cora's cry, from heav'n I sped.
Immortal terror froze my mind:
I fear'd, ev'n as I yearn'd to find
My child, my joy, faln from my care
Wrong'd or distresst, I knew not where,
Cora, my Cora!
Nor thought I whither first to fly,
Answ'ring the appeal of that wild cry:
But still it drew me till I came
To Enna, calling still her name,
Cora, my Cora!

Ch.
If thou hast found her, tell us, Queen, O tell!

Dem.
Nine days I wander'd o'er the land.
From Enna to the eastern strand
I sought, and when the first night came
I lit my torch in Etna's flame.
But neither 'mid the chestnut woods
That rustle o'er his stony floods;
Nor yet at daybreak on the meads
Where bountiful Symaethus leads
His chaunting boatmen to the main;
Nor where the road on Hybla's plain
Is skirted by the spacious corn;
Nor where embattled Syracuse
With lustrous temple fronts the morn;
Nor yet by dolphin'd Arethuse;
Nor when I crossed Anapus wide,
Where Cyane, his reedy bride,
Uprushing from her crystal well,
Doth not his cold embrace repel;
Nor yet by western Eryx, where
Gay Aphrodite high in air
Beams gladness from her marble chair;
Nor 'mong the mountains that enfold
Panormos in her shell of gold,
Found I my Cora: no reply
Came to my call, my helpless cry,
Cora, my Cora!

Ch.
Hast thou not found her, then? Tell us—O tell!

Dem.
What wonder that I never found
Her whom I sought on mortal ground,
When she—(now will ye understand?)—
Dwelt in the land that is no land,
The fruitless and unseason'd plain
Where all lost things are found again;
Where man's distract imaginings
Head-downward hang on bat-like wings,
'Mid mummied hopes, sleep-walking cares,
Crest-faln illusions and despairs,
The tortur'd memories of crime,
The outcasts of forgotten time?

Ch.
Where is she, Queen?—where?—where?

Dem.
Nor had I known,
Had not himself high Helios seen and told me.

Ch.
Alas! Alas! we cannot understand—
We pray, dear Queen, may great Zeus comfort thee.

Dem.
Yea, pray to Zeus; but pray ye for yourselves,
That he have pity on you, for there is need.
Or let Zeus hear a strange, unwonted prayer
That in his peril he will aid himself;
For I have said, nor coud his Stygian oath
Add any sanction to a mother's word,
That, if he give not back my daughter to me,
Him will I slay, and lock his pining ghost
In sleepy prisons of unhallowing hell.

Ch.
(aside).
Alas! alas! she is distraught with grief.—
What comfort can we make?—How reason with her?—
(to D.
This coud not be, great Queen. How coud it be
That Zeus should be destroy'd, or thou destroy him?

Dem.
Yea, and you too: so make your prayer betimes.

Ch.
We pray thee, Lady, sit thou on this bank
And we will bring thee food; or if thou thirst,
Water. We know too in what cooling caves
The sly Fauns have bestow'd their skins of wine.

Dem.
Ye simple creatures, I need not these things,
And stand above your pity. Think ye me
A woman of the earth derang'd with grief?
Nay, nay: but I have pity on your pity,
And for your kindness I will ease the trouble
Wherewith it wounds your gentleness: attend!
Ye see this jewel here, that from my neck
Hangs by this golden chain. [They crowd near to see.

Look, 'tis a picture,
'Tis of Persephone.

Ch.
How?—Is that she?—
A crown she weareth.—She was never wont
Thus . . .—nor her robe thus—and her countenance
Hath not the smile which drew us from the sea.

Dem.
Daedalus cut it, in the year he made
The Zibian Aphrodite, and Hephaestus
O'erlookt and praised the work. I treasure it
Beyond all other jewels that I have,
And on this chain I guard it. Say now: think ye
It cannot fall loose until every link
Of all the chain be broken, or if one
Break, will it fall?

Ch.
Surely if one break, Lady,
The chain is broken and the jewel falls.

Dem.
'Tis so. Now hearken diligently. All life
Is as this chain, and Zeus is as the jewel.
The universal life dwells first in the Earth,
The stones and soil; therefrom the plants and trees
Exhale their being; and on them the brutes
Feeding elaborate their sentient life,
And from these twain mankind; and in mankind
A spirit lastly is form'd of subtler sort
Whereon the high gods live, sustain'd thereby,
And feeding on it, as plants on the soil,
Or animals on plants. Now see! I hold,
As well ye know, one whole link of this chain:
If I should kill the plants, must not man perish?
And if he perish, then the gods must die.

Ch.
If this were so, thou wouldst destroy thyself.

Dem.
And therefore Zeus will not believe my word.

Ch.
Nor we believe thee, Lady: it cannot be
That thou shouldst seek to mend a private fortune
By universal ruin, and restore
Thy daughter by destruction of thyself.

Dem.
Ye are not mothers, or ye would not wonder.
In me, who hold from great all-mother Rhea
Heritage of essential motherhood,
Ye would look rather for unbounded passion.
Coud I, the tenderness of Nature's heart,
Exist, were I unheedful to protect
From wrong and ill the being that I gave,
The unweeting passions that I fondly nurtured
To hopes of glory, the young confidence
In growing happiness? Shall I throw by
As self-delusion the supreme ambition,
Which I encourag'd till parental fondness
Bore the prophetic blessing, on whose truth
My spirit throve? Oh never! nay, nay, nay!
That were the one disaster, and if aid
I cannot, I can mightily avenge.
On irremediable wrong I shrink not
To pile immortal ruin, there to lie
As trophies on a carven tomb: nor less
For that no memory of my deed survive,
Nor any eye to see, nor tongue to tell.

Ch.
So vast injustice, Lady, were not good.

Dem.
To you I seem unjust involving man.

Ch.
Why should man suffer in thy feud with Zeus?

Dem.
Let Zeus relent. There is no other way.
I will destroy the seeds of plant and tree:
Vineyard and orchard, oliveyard and cornland
Shall all withhold their fruits, and in their stead
Shall flourish the gay blooms that Cora loved.
There shall be dearth, and yet so gay the dearth
That all the land shall look in holiday
With mockery of foison; every field
With splendour aflame. For wheat the useless poppy
In sheeted scarlet; and for barley and oats
The blue and yellow weeds that mock men's toil,
Centaury and marigold in chequer'd plots:
Where seed is sown, or none, shall dandelions
And wretched ragwort vie, orchis and iris
And garish daisy, and for every flower
That in this vale she pluckt, shall spring a thousand.
Where'er she stept anemones shall crowd,
And the sweet violet. These things shall ye see.
—But I behold him whom I came to meet,
Hermes:—he, be he laden howsoe'er,
Will heavier-laden to his lord return.

HERMES
(entering).
Mighty Demeter, Mother of the seasons,
Bountiful all-sustainer, fairest daughter
Of arch-ancestral Rhea,—to thee Zeus sendeth
Kindly message. He grieves seeing thy godhead
Offended wrongly at eternal justice,
'Gainst destiny ordain'd idly revolting.
Ever will he, thy brother, honour thee
And willingly aid thee; but since now thy daughter
Is raised to a place on the tripartite throne,
He finds thee honour'd duly and not injur'd.
Wherefore he bids thee now lament no more,
But with thy presence grace the courts of heav'n.

Dem.
Bright Hermes, Argus-slayer, born of Maia,
Who bearest empty words, the mask of war,
To Zeus make thine own words, that thou hast found me
Offended,—that I still lament my daughter,
Nor heed his summons to the courts of heav'n.

Her.
Giv'st thou me nought but these relentless words?

Dem.
I send not words, nor dost thou carry deeds.
But know, since heav'n denies my claim, I take
Earth for my battle-field. Curse and defiance
Shall shake his throne, and, readier then for justice,
Zeus will enquire my terms: thou, on that day,
Remember them; that he shall bid thee lead
Persephone from Hades by the hand,
And on this spot, whence she was stol'n, restore her
Into mine arms. Execute that; and praise
Shall rise from earth and peace return to heav'n.

Her.
How dare I carry unto Zeus thy threats?

Dem.
Approach him with a gift: this little wallet. [Giving a little bag of seeds.

I will not see thee again until the day
Thou lead my daughter hither thro' the gates of Hell.

[Going.
Her.
Ah! mighty Queen, the lightness of thy gift
Is greater burden than thy weighty words.

[Exeunt severally r. and l.
CHORUS.