I hope it may be successful. PERSEPHONE. Tell me what it is. HERMES. I have found at the back of the palace a small rural waggon, and I have caught two ponies, with coats like grey velvet, and great antelopes' eyes--dear little creatures. I have harnessed them, and now I want you to sit in this cart, while I am dressed like some herdsman of these barbarians, and lead the ponies, and we will go together to coax Demeter out into the fields. PERSEPHONE. Oh! Hermes, how splendid of you. Let us fly to carry out your plan. Circe, will you not come with us? CIRCE. Or shall I not rather go to prepare the mind of Demeter for an agreeable surprise? Shall you be happy by yourselves, Kronos and Rhea? RHEA. Quite happy, for we desire to sleep. [_Exit_ CIRCE _to right_, HERMES _and_ PERSEPHONE _to left_.] III [_A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees, except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over the latter is rising the harvest moon._ PHOEBUS APOLLO _alone; he watches the luminary for a long time in silence_.] PHOEBUS. Selene! sister!--since that tawny shell, Stained by thy tears and hollowed by thy sighs, Recalls thee still to mind--dost thou regard, From some tumultuous covert of this woodland, Thy whilom sphere and palace? Nun of the skies, In coy virginity of pulse, thy hands Repelled me when I sought to win thy lair, Fraternal, with no thoughts but humorous ones; And in thy chill revulsion, through thy skies, At my advance thy crystal home would fade, A ghost, a shadow, a film, a papery dream. Thou and thy moon were one. What is it now, Thy phantom paradise of gorgeous pearl, With sibilant streams and palmy tier on tier Of wind-bewhitened foliage? Still it floats, As when thy congregated harps and viols Beat slow harmonious progress, light on light, Across our stainless canopy of heaven. Ah! but how changed, Selene! If thy form Crouches among these harsher herbs, O turn Thy withering face away, and press thine eyes To darkness in the strings of dusty heather, Since that loose globe of orange pallor totters, Racked with the fires of anarchy, and sheds The embers of thy glory; and the cradles Of thy imperial maidenhood are foul With sulphur and the craterous ash of hell. O gaze not, sister, on the loathsome wreck Of what was once thy moon. Yet, if thou must With tear-fed eyes visit thine ancient realm, Bend down until the fringe of thy faint lids Hides all save what is in this tarn reflected-- Cold, pallid, swimming in the lustrous pool, There only worthy of thy clear regard, A vision purified in woe.