PROSERPINA. Then I again behold thee, Mother dear:— Again I tread the flowery plain of Enna, And clasp thee, Arethuse, & you, my nymphs; I have escaped from hateful Tartarus, The abode of furies and all loathed shapes That thronged around me, making hell more black. Oh! I could worship thee, light giving Sun, Who spreadest warmth and radiance o’er the world. Look at[2] the branches of those chesnut trees, That wave to the soft breezes, while their stems Are tinged with red by the sun’s slanting rays. And the soft clouds that float ’twixt earth and sky. How sweet are all these sights! There all is night! No God like that (_pointing to the sun_) smiles on the Elysian plains, The air [is] windless, and all shapes are still. IRIS. And must I interpose in this deep joy, And sternly cloud your hopes? Oh! answer me, Art thou still, Proserpine, a child of light? Or hast thou dimmed thy attributes of Heaven By such Tartarian food as must for ever Condemn thee to be Queen of Hell & Night? PROSERPINA. No, Iris, no,—I still am pure as thee: Offspring of light and air, I have no stain Of Hell. I am for ever thine, oh, Mother! CERES. (_to the shades from Hell_) Begone, foul visitants to upper air! Back to your dens! nor stain the sunny earth By shadows thrown from forms so foul—Crouch in! Proserpine, child of light, is not your Queen! (_to the nymphs_) Quick bring my car,—we will ascend to heaven, Deserting Earth, till by decree of Jove, Eternal laws shall bind the King of Hell To leave in peace the offspring of the sky. ASCALAPHUS. Stay, Ceres! By the dread decree of Jove Your child is doomed to be eternal Queen Of Tartarus,—nor may she dare ascend The sunbright regions of Olympian Jove, Or tread the green Earth ’mid attendant nymphs. Proserpine, call to mind your walk last eve, When as you wandered in Elysian groves, Through bowers for ever green, and mossy walks, Where flowers never die, nor wind disturbs The sacred calm, whose silence soothes the dead, Nor interposing clouds, with dun wings, dim Its mild and silver light, you plucked its fruit, You ate of a pomegranate’s seeds— CERES. Be silent, Prophet of evil, hateful to the Gods! Sweet Proserpine, my child, look upon me. You shrink; your trembling form & pallid cheeks Would make his words seem true which are most false[.] Thou didst not taste the food of Erebus;— Offspring of Gods art thou,—nor Hell, nor Jove Shall tear thee from thy Mother’s clasping arms. PROSERPINA. If fate decrees, can we resist? farewel! Oh! Mother, dearer to your child than light, Than all the forms of this sweet earth & sky, Though dear are these, and dear are my poor nymphs, Whom I must leave;—oh! can immortals weep? And can a Goddess die as mortals do, Or live & reign where it is death to be? Ino, dear Arethuse, again you lose Your hapless Proserpine, lost to herself When she quits you for gloomy Tartarus.