University of Virginia Library

ACT III

CHORUS.
Inter se.

ODE.

Enter Demeter.
Ch.
Hail, mighty Mother!—Welcome, great Demeter!—

(1)
This day bring joy to thee, and peace to man!

Dem.
I welcome you, my loving true allies,
And thank you, who for me your gentle tempers
Have stiffen'd in rebellion, and so long
Harass'd the foe. Here on this field of flowers
I have bid you share my victory or defeat.
For Hermes hath this day command from Zeus
To lead our lost Persephone from Hell,
Hither whence she was stolen.—And yet, alas!
Tho' Zeus is won, some secret power thwarts me;
All is not won: a cloud is o'er my spirit.
Wherefore not yet I boast, nor will rejoice
Till mine eyes see her, and my arms enfold her,
And breast to breast we meet in fond embrace.

Ch.
Well hast thou fought, great goddess, so to wrest
Zeus from his word. We thank thee, call'd to share
Thy triumph, and rejoice. Yet O, we pray,
Make thou this day a day of peace for man!
Even if Persephone be not restored,
Whether Aidoneus hold her or release,
Relent thou.—Stay thine anger, mighty goddess;
Nor with thy hateful famine slay mankind.

Dem.
Say not that word ‘relent’ lest Hades hear!

Ch.
Consider rather if mankind should hear.

Dem.
Do ye love man?

Ch.
We have seen his sorrows, Lady . . .

Dem.
And what can ye have seen that I know not?—
His sorrow?—Ah my sorrow!—and ye bid
Me to relent; whose deeds of fond compassion
Have in this year of agony built up
A story for all time that shall go wand'ring
Further than I have wander'd;—whereto all ears
Shall hearken ever, as ye will hearken now.

Ch.
Happy are we, who first shall hear the tale
From thine own lips, and tell it to the sea.

Dem.
Attend then while I tell.—
—Parting from Hermes hence, anger'd at heart,
Self-exiled from the heav'ns, forgone, alone,
My anguish fasten'd on me, as I went
Wandering an alien in the haunts of men.
To screen my woe I put my godhead off,
Taking the likeness of a worthy dame,
A woman of the people well in years;
Till going unobserv'd, it irked me soon
To be unoccupy'd save by my grief,
While men might find distraction for their sorrows
In useful toil. Then, of my pity rather
Than hope to find their simple cure my own,
I took resolve to share and serve their needs,
And be as one of them.

Ch.
Ah, mighty goddess,
Coudst thou so put thy dignities away,
And suffer the familiar brunt of men?

Dem.
In all things even as they.—And sitting down
One evening at Eleusis, by the well
Under an olive-tree, likening myself
Outwardly to some kindly-hearted matron,
Whose wisdom and experience are of worth
Either where childhood clamorously speaks
The engrossing charge of Aphrodite's gifts,
Or merry maidens in wide-echoing halls
Want sober governance;—to me, as there
I sat, the daughters of King Keleos came,
Tall noble damsels, as kings' daughters are,
And, marking me a stranger, they drew from me
A tale told so engagingly, that they
Grew fain to find employment for my skill;
—As men devise in mutual recompense,
Hoping the main advantage for themselves;—
And so they bad me follow, and I enter'd
The palace of King Keleos, and received
There on my knees the youngest of the house,
A babe, to nurse him as a mother would:
And in that menial service I was proud
To outrun duty and trust: and there I liv'd
Disguised among the maidens many months.

Ch.
Often as have our guesses aim'd, dear Lady,
Where thou didst hide thyself, oft as we wonder'd
What chosen work was thine, none ever thought
That thou didst deign to tend a mortal babe.

Dem.
What life I led shall be for men to tell.
But for this babe, the nursling of my sorrow,
Whose peevish cry was my consoling care,
How much I came to love him ye shall hear.

Ch.
What was he named, Lady?

Dem.
Demophoon.
Yea, ye shall hear how much I came to love him.
For in his small epitome I read
The trouble of mankind; in him I saw
The hero's helplessness, the countless perils
In ambush of life's promise, the desire
Blind and instinctive, and the will perverse.
His petty needs were man's necessities;
In him I nurst all mortal natur', embrac'd
With whole affection to my breast, and lull'd
Wailing humanity upon my knee.

Ch.
We see thou wilt not now destroy mankind.

Dem.
What I coud do to save man was my thought.
And, since my love was center'd in the boy,
My thought was first for him, to rescue him;
That, thro' my providence, he ne'er should know
Suffering, nor disease, nor fear of death.
Therefore I fed him on immortal food,
And should have gain'd my wish, so well he throve,
But by ill-chance it hapt, once, as I held him
Bathed in the fire at midnight (as was my wont),—
His mother stole upon us, and ascare
At the strange sight, screaming in loud dismay
Compel'd me to unmask, and leave for ever
The halls of Keleos, and my work undone.

Ch.
'Twas pity that she came!—Didst thou not grieve to lose
The small Demophoon?—Coudst thou not save him?

Dem.
I had been blinded. Think ye for yourselves . . .
What vantage were it to mankind at large
That one should be immortal,—if all beside
Must die and suffer misery as before?

Ch.
Nay, truly. And great envy borne to one
So favour'd might have more embitter'd all.

Dem.
I had been foolish. My sojourn with men
Had warpt my mind with mortal tenderness.
So, questioning myself what real gift
I might bestow on man to help his state,
I saw that sorrow was his life-companion,
To be embrac't bravely, not weakly shun'd:
That as by toil man winneth happiness,
Thro' tribulation he must come to peace.
How to make sorrow his friend then,—this my task.
Here was a mystery . . . and how persuade
This thorny truth? . . . Ye do not hearken me.

Ch.
Yea, honour'd goddess, yea, we hearken still:
Stint not thy tale.

Dem.
Ye might not understand.
My tale to you must be a tale of deeds—
How first I bade King Keleos build for me
A temple in Eleusis, and ordain'd
My worship, and the mysteries of my thought;
Where in the sorrow that I underwent
Man's state is pattern'd; and in picture shewn
The way of his salvation. . . . Now with me
—Here is a matter grateful to your ears—
Your lov'd Persephone hath equal honour,
And in the spring her festival of flowers:
And if she should return . . .

[Listening.
Ch.
We hear no sound.

Dem.
Hush ye! Hermes: he comes.

Ch.
What hearest thou?

Dem.
Hermes; and not alone.
She is there. 'Tis she: I have won.

Ch.
Where? where?

Dem.
(aside).
Ah! can it be that out of sorrow's night,
From tears, from yearning pain, from long despair,
Into joy's sunlight I shall come again?—
Aside! stand ye aside!

Enter Hermes leading Persephone.
Her.
Mighty Demeter, lo! I execute
The will of Zeus and here restore thy daughter.

Dem.
I have won.

Per.
Sweet Mother, thy embrace is as the welcome
Of all the earth, thy kiss the breath of life.

Dem.
Ah! but to me, Cora! Thy voice again . . .
My tongue is trammel'd with excess of joy.

Per.
Arise, my nymphs, my Oceanides!
My Nereids all, arise! and welcome me!
Put off your strange solemnity! arise!

Ch.
Welcome! all welcome, fair Persephone!

(1)
We came to welcome thee, but fell abash'd
Seeing thy purple robe and crystal crown.

Per.
Arise and serve my pleasure as of yore.

Dem.
And thou too doff thy strange solemnity,
That all may see thee as thou art, my Cora,
Restor'd and ever mine. Put off thy crown!

Per.
Awhile! dear Mother—what thou say'st is true;
I am restor'd to thee, and evermore
Shall be restor'd. Yet am I none the less
Evermore Queen of Hades: and 'tis meet
I wear the crown, the symbol of my reign.

Dem.
What words are these, my Cora! Evermore
Restor'd to me thou say'st . . . 'tis well—but then
Evermore Queen of Hades . . . what is this?
I had a dark foreboding till I saw thee;
Alas, alas! it lives again: destroy it!
Solve me this riddle quickly, if thou mayest.

Per.
Let Hermes speak, nor fear thou. All is well.

Her.
Divine Demeter, thou hast won thy will,
And the command of Zeus have I obey'd.
Thy daughter is restor'd, and evermore
Shall be restor'd to thee as on this day.
But Hades holding to his bride, the Fates
Were kind also to him, that she should be
His queen in Hades as thy child on earth.
Yearly, as spring-tide cometh, she is thine
While flowers bloom and all the land is gay;
But when thy corn is gather'd, and the fields
Are bare, and earth withdraws her budding life
From the sharp bite of winter's angry fang,
Yearly will she return and hold her throne
With great Aidoneus and the living dead:
And she hath eaten with him of such fruit
As holds her his true bride for evermore.

Dem.
Alas! alas!

Per.
Rejoice, dear Mother. Let not vain lament
Trouble our joy this day, nor idle tears.

Dem.
Alas! from my own deed my trouble comes:
He gave thee of the fruit which I had curs'd:
I made the poison that enchanted thee.

Per.
Repent not in thy triumph, but rejoice,
Who hast thy will in all, as I have mine.

Dem.
I have but half my will, how hast thou more?

Per.
It was my childish fancy (thou rememb'rest),
I would be goddess of the flowers: I thought
That men should innocently honour me
With bloodless sacrifice and spring-tide joy.
Now Fate, that look'd contrary, hath fulfill'd
My project with mysterious efficacy:
And as a plant that yearly dieth down
When summer is o'er, and hideth in the earth,
Nor showeth promise in its wither'd leaves
That it shall reawaken and put forth
Its blossoms any more to deck the spring;
So I, the mutual symbol of my choice,
Shall die with winter, and with spring revive.
How without winter coud I have my spring?
How come to resurrection without death?
Lo thus our joyful meeting of to-day,
Born of our separation, shall renew
Its annual ecstasy, by grief refresht:
And no more pall than doth the joy of spring
Yearly returning to the hearts of men.
See then the accomplishment of all my hope:
Rejoice, and think not to put off my crown.

Dem.
What hast thou seen below to reconcile thee
To the dark moiety of thy strange fate?

Per.
Where have I been, mother? what have I seen?
The downward pathway to the gates of death:
The skeleton of earthly being, stript
Of all disguise: the sudden void of night:
The spectral records of unwholesome fear:—
Why was it given to me to see these things?
The ruin'd godheads, disesteem'd, condemn'd
To toil of deathless mockery: conquerors
In the reverse of glory, doom'd to rule
The multitudinous army of their crimes:
The naked retribution of all wrong:—
Why was it given to me to see such things?

Dem.
Not without terror, as I think, thou speakest,
Nor as one reconcil'd to brook return.

Per.
But since I have seen these things, with salt and fire
My spirit is purged, and by this crystal crown
Terror is tamed within me. If my words
Seem'd to be tinged with terror, 'twas because
I knew one hour of terror (on the day
That took me hence) and with that memory
Colour'd my speech, using the terms which paint
The blindfold fears of men, who little reckon
How they by holy innocence and love,
By reverence and gentle lives may win
A title to the fair Elysian fields,
Where the good spirits dwell in ease and light
And entertainment of those fair desires
That made earth beautiful . . . brave souls that spent
Their lives for liberty and truth, grave seers
Whose vision conquer'd darkness, pious poets
Whose words have won Apollo's deathless praise,
Who all escape Hell's mysteries, nor come nigh
The Cave of Cacophysia.

Dem.
Mysteries!
What mysteries are these? and what the Cave?

Per.
The mysteries of evil, and the cave
Of blackness that obscures them. Even in hell
The worst is hidden, and unfructuous night
Stifles her essence in her truthless heart.

Dem.
What is the arch-falsity? I seek to know
The mystery of evil. Hast thou seen it?

Per.
I have seen it. Coud I truly rule my kingdom
Not having seen it?

Dem.
Tell me what it is.

Per.
'Tis not that I forget it; tho' the thought
Is banisht from me. But 'tis like a dream
Whose sense is an impression lacking words.

Dem.
If it would pain thee telling . . .

Per.
Nay, but surely
The words of gods and men are names of things
And thoughts accustom'd: but of things unknown
And unimagin'd are no words at all.

Dem.
And yet will words sometimes outrun the thought.

Per.
What can be spoken is nothing: 'twere a path
That leading t'ward some prospect ne'er arrived.

Dem.
The more thou holdest back, the more I long.

Per.
The outward aspect only mocks my words.

Dem.
Yet what is outward easy is to tell.

Per.
Something is possible. This cavern lies
In very midmost of deep-hollow'd hell.
O'er its torn mouth the black Plutonic rock
Is split in sharp disorder'd pinnacles
And broken ledges, whereon sit, like apes
Upon a wither'd tree, the hideous sins
Of all the world: once having seen within
The magnetism is heavy on them, and they crawl
Palsied with filthy thought upon the peaks;
Or, squatting thro' long ages, have become
Rooted like plants into the griping clefts:
And there they pullulate, and moan, and strew
The rock with fragments of their mildew'd growth.

Dem.
Cora, my child! and hast thou seen these things!

Per.
Nay but the outward aspect, figur'd thus
In mere material loathsomeness, is nought
Beside the mystery that is hid within.

Dem.
Search thou for words, I pray, somewhat to tell.

Per.
Are there not matters past the thought of men
Or gods to know?

Dem.
Thou meanest wherefore things
Should be at all? Or, if they be, why thus,
As hot, cold, hard and soft: and wherefore Zeus
Had but two brothers; why the stars of heaven
Are so innumerable, constellated
Just as they are; or why this Sicily
Should be three-corner'd? Yes, thou sayest well,
Why things are as they are, nor gods nor men
Can know. We say that Fate appointed thus,
And are content.—

Per.
Suppose, dear Mother, there wer' a temple in heaven,
Which, dedicated to the unknown Cause
And worship of the unseen, had power to draw
All that was worthy and good within its gate:
And that the spirits who enter'd there became
Not only purified and comforted,
But that the mysteries of the shrine were such,
That the initiated bathed in light
Of infinite intelligence, and saw
The meaning and the reason of all things,
All at a glance distinctly, and perceived
The origin of all things to be good,
And the end good, and that what appears as evil
Is as a film of dust, that faln thereon,
May,—at one stroke of the hand,—
Be brush'd away, and show the good beneath,
Solid and fair and shining: If moreover
This blessèd vision were of so great power
That none coud e'er forget it or relapse
To doubtful ignorance:—I say, dear Mother,
Suppose that there were such a temple in heaven.

Dem.
O child, my child! that were a temple indeed.
'Tis such a temple as man needs on earth;
A holy shrine that makes no pact with sin,
A worthy shrine to draw the worthy and good,
A shrine of wisdom trifling not with folly,
A shrine of beauty, where the initiated
Drank love and light. . . . Strange thou shouldst speak of it.
I have inaugurated such a temple
These last days in Eleusis, have ordain'd
These very mysteries!—Strange thou speakest of it.
But by what path return we to the Cave
Of Cacophysia?

Per.
By this path, dear Mother.
The Cave of Cacophysia is in all things
T'ward evil, as that temple were t'ward good.
I enter'd in. Outside the darkness was
But as accumulated sunlessness;
Within 'twas positive as light itself,
A blackness that extinguish'd: Yet I knew,
For Hades told me, that I was to see;
And so I waited, till a forking flash
Of sudden lightning dazzlingly reveal'd
All at a glance. As on a pitchy night
The warder of some high acropolis
Looks down into the dark, and suddenly
Sees all the city with its roofs and streets,
Houses and walls, clear as in summer noon,
And ere he think of it, 'tis dark again,—
So I saw all within the Cave, and held
The vision, 'twas so burnt upon my sense.

Dem.
What saw'st thou, child? what saw'st thou?

Per.
Nay, the things
Not to be told, because there are no words
Of gods or men to paint the inscrutable
And full initiation of hell.—I saw
The meaning and the reason of all things,
All at a glance, and in that glance perceiv'd
The origin of all things to be evil,
And the end evil: that what seems as good
Is as a bloom of gold that spread thereo'er
May, by one stroke of the hand,
Be brush'd away, and leave the ill beneath
Solid and foul and black. . . .

Dem.
Now tell me, child,
If Hades love thee, that he sent thee thither.

Per.
He said it coud not harm me: and I think.
It hath not.

[Going up to Demeter, who kisses her.
Dem.

Per.
I come. And art thou reconcil'd, dear Mother?

Dem.
Joy and surprise make tempest in my mind;
When their bright stir is o'er, there will be peace.
But ere we leave this flowery field, the scene
Of strange and beauteous memories evermore,
I thank thee, Hermes, for thy willing service.

Per.
I thank thee, son of Maia, and bid farewell.

Her.
Have thy joy now, great Mother; and have thou joy,
Fairest Persephone, Queen of the Spring.

CHORUS.
Fair Persephone, garlands we bring thee,
Flow'rs and spring-tide welcome sing thee.
Hades held thee not,
Darkness quell'd thee not.
Gay and joyful welcome!
Welcome, Queen, evermore.
Earth shall own thee,
Thy nymphs crown thee,
Garland thee and crown thee,
Crown thee Queen evermore.