 | The Rape of Proserpine |  |
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Proserpine, Virgins.
Proser.
Now come and sit around me,
And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each
What most becomes her beauty. What a vale
Is this of Enna! Every thing that comes
From the green earth, springs here more graciously;
And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now
Than it was wont, even in Sicily.
My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart
In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted
By some delicious passion. Look, above,
Above—How nobly through the cloudless sky
The great Apollo goes!—Jove's radiant son—
My father's son: and here, below, the bosom
Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers.
Who would be sad to-day! Come round, and cast
Each one her odorous heap from out her lap,
Into one pile. Some we'll divide amongst us,
And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours;
So may Aurora's path become more fair,
And we be blest in giving.
And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each
What most becomes her beauty. What a vale
Is this of Enna! Every thing that comes
From the green earth, springs here more graciously;
And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now
Than it was wont, even in Sicily.
My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart
In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted
By some delicious passion. Look, above,
Above—How nobly through the cloudless sky
The great Apollo goes!—Jove's radiant son—
My father's son: and here, below, the bosom
Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers.
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Each one her odorous heap from out her lap,
Into one pile. Some we'll divide amongst us,
And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours;
So may Aurora's path become more fair,
And we be blest in giving.
Here—this rose
(This one half blown) shall be my Maia's portion,
For that like it her blush is beautiful:
And this deep violet, almost as blue
As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia,
I'll give to thee; for like thyself it wears
Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily,
Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast?
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed,
If flowers have sense for envy:—It shall lie
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris,
Like one star on the bosom of the night.
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose,—they
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves;
And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths,
The dirge of those young children of the year.
But here is heart's-ease for your woes. And now,
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee,
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane:
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou
Hast clung to me, thro' every joy and sorrow;
It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost;
And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree,
The woodbine too must perish.—Hark! what sound—
Do ye see aught?
(This one half blown) shall be my Maia's portion,
For that like it her blush is beautiful:
And this deep violet, almost as blue
As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia,
I'll give to thee; for like thyself it wears
Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily,
Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast?
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed,
If flowers have sense for envy:—It shall lie
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris,
Like one star on the bosom of the night.
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose,—they
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves;
And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths,
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But here is heart's-ease for your woes. And now,
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee,
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane:
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou
Hast clung to me, thro' every joy and sorrow;
It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost;
And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree,
The woodbine too must perish.—Hark! what sound—
Do ye see aught?
CHORUS.
Behold, behold, Proserpina!
Dark clouds from out the earth arise,
And wing their way towards the skies,
As they would veil the burning blush of day.
And, look! upon a rolling car,
Some fearful being from afar
Comes onward. As he moves along the ground,
A dull and subterranean sound
Companions him; and from his face doth shine,
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A light that darkens all the vale around.
SEMICHORUS,
(Cyane.)
'Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us
From the depths of Tartarus.
For what of evil doth he roam
From his red and gloomy home,
In the centre of the world,
Where the sinful dead are hurled?
Mark him as he moves along
Drawn by horses black and strong,
Such as may belong to Night
'Ere she takes her morning flight.
Now the chariot stops: the god
On our grassy world hath trod:
Like a Titan steppeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
On his mighty shoulders lie
Raven locks, and in his eye
A cruel beauty, such as none
Of us may wisely look upon.
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He comes indeed. How like a god he looks!
Terribly lovely—Shall I shun his eye
Which even here looks brightly beautiful?
What a wild leopard glance he has.—I am
Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly?
I will not: yet, methinks, I fear to stay.
Come, let us go, Cyane.
[Pluto enters.]
Pluto.
Stay, oh! stay.
Proserpina, Proserpina, I come
From my Tartarean kingdom to behold you.
The brother of Jove am I. I come to say
Gently, beside this blue Sicilian stream,
How much I love you, fair Proserpina.
Think me not rude that thus at once I tell
My passion. I disarm me of all power;
And in the accents of a man I sue,
Bowing before your beauty. Brightest maid!
Let me—still unpresuming—say I have
Roamed through the earth, where many an eye hath smiled
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But I have passed free from amongst them all,
To gaze on you alone. I might have clasped
Lovely and royal maids, and throned queens,
Sea nymphs, and airy shapes, that glide along
Like light across the hills, or those that make
Mysterious music in the desert woods,
Or lend a voice to fountains, or to caves,
Or answering hush the river's sweet reproach—
Oh! I've escaped from all, to come and tell
How much I love you, sweet Proserpina.
SEMICHORUS,
(Cyane.)
Come with me, away, away,
Fair and young Proserpina.
You will die unless you flee,
Child of crowned Cybele.
Think of all your Mother's love,
Of every stream and pleasant grove
That you must for ever leave,
If the dark king you believe.
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Nor his wily heart's desire,
Nor the locks that round his head
Run like wreathed snakes, and fling
A shadow o'er his eyes glancing;
Nor, the dangerous whispers hung,
Like honey, roofing o'er his tongue.
But think of all thy Mother's glory—
Of her love—of every story
Of the cruel Pluto told,
And which grey Tradition old,
With all its weight of grief and crime,
Hath plucked from out the grave of Time.
Once again I bid thee flee,
Daughter of great Cybele.
Proser.
You are too harsh, Cyane.
Pluto.
Oh! my love,
Fairer than the white Naiad—Fairer far
Than aught on earth, and fair as aught in heaven:
Hear me, Proserpina!
Proser.
Away, Away.
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He has, Cyane; has he not?—Away.
Can the gods flatter?
Pluto.
By my burning throne!
I love you, sweetest: I will make you queen
Of my great kingdom. One third of the world
Shall you reign over, my Proserpina;
And you shall rank as high as any she,
Save one, within the starry court of Jove.
Proser.
Will you be true?
Pluto.
I swear it. By myself!—
Come then, my bride.
Proser.
Speak thou again, my friend.
Speak, harsh Cyane, in a harsher voice,
And bid me not believe him. Ah! you droop
Your head in silence.
Pluto.
Come, my brightest queen!
Come, beautiful Proserpina, and see
The regions over which your husband reigns;
His palaces, and radiant treasures, which
Mock and outstrip all fable; his great power,
Which the living own, and wandering ghosts obey,
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On my illuminated throne, and be
A queen indeed; and round your forehead shall run
Circlets of gems, as bright as those which bind
The brows of Juno on Heav'n's festal nights,
When all the gods assemble, and bend down
In homage before Jove.
Proser.
Speak out, Cyane!
Pluto.
But, above all, in my heart shall you reign
Supreme, a goddess and a Queen indeed,
Without a rival. Oh! and you shall share
My subterranean power, and sport upon
The fields Elysian, where, 'midst softest sounds,
And odours springing from immortal flowers,
And mazy rivers, and eternal groves
Of bloom and beauty, the good spirits walk:
And you shall take your station in the skies
Nearest the queen of Heaven, and with her hold
Celestial talk, and meet Jove's tender smile,
So beautiful—
Proser.
Away, Away, Away.
Nothing but force shall ever. Oh! away.
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Come round me virgins. Am I then betrayed?
O fraudful king!
Pluto.
No, by this kiss, and this:
I am your own, my love; and you are mine
For ever and for ever.—Weep Cyane.
CHORUS.
They are gone, afar—afar:
Like the shooting of a star,
See,—their chariot fades away.
Farewell, lost Proserpina.
(Cyane is gradually transformed.)
Like the shooting of a star,
See,—their chariot fades away.
Farewell, lost Proserpina.
But, ah! what frightful change is here?
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear!
We call thee,—vainly; On the ground
She sinks, without a single sound,
And all her garments float around.
Again, again, she rises,—light;
Her head is like a fountain bright,
And her glossy ringlets fall,
With a murmur musical,
O'er her shoulders, like a river
That rushes and escapes for ever.
—Is the fair Cyane gone?
And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after times repair,
With heavy heart, and weeping eye,
To sing songs to her memory?
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear!
We call thee,—vainly; On the ground
She sinks, without a single sound,
And all her garments float around.
Again, again, she rises,—light;
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And her glossy ringlets fall,
With a murmur musical,
O'er her shoulders, like a river
That rushes and escapes for ever.
—Is the fair Cyane gone?
And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after times repair,
With heavy heart, and weeping eye,
To sing songs to her memory?
Oh! then farewell: and now with hearts that mourn
Deeply, to Diana's temple will we go:
But ever on this day we will return,
Constant, to mark Cyane's fountain flow:
And haply,—for among us who can know
The secrets written on the scrolls of Fate,
A day may come, when we may cease our woe;
And she, redeemed at last from Pluto's hate,
Rise in her beauty old, pure, and regenerate.
Deeply, to Diana's temple will we go:
But ever on this day we will return,
Constant, to mark Cyane's fountain flow:
And haply,—for among us who can know
The secrets written on the scrolls of Fate,
A day may come, when we may cease our woe;
And she, redeemed at last from Pluto's hate,
Rise in her beauty old, pure, and regenerate.
| The Rape of Proserpine | |