48 
Some golden fandalé, or & purpled robe 
And thou haf feen my oe cand to 
the mead 
Where late they loft me, ‘but have found no 
more— 
There with torn locks my darling maidens 
mourn. 
s¢ Whither,” thouatkeft,‘¢ whither is the fled? 
Which is the roadthe during ruffian took ? 
Shall he unpunifh’d ftain the race of Jove ? 
Say, whither fped his couriers ? Bring me 
torches! 
Vil feek him thro’ the night, nor fpare a ftep 
That may explore his haunt.” The wakeful 
dragons, 
Wont to all paths, are faften’d to thy car, 
And roll about their eyes, and {peed along 
Thro’ wilds untrodden and frequentlefs woods. 
But hither, hither to the deeps of night, 
Where the immortals never care to tread, 
* Where under loads of horror groans thy 
_ daughter, 
They do not come. 
wards, mother, 
The eae ae of thy winged fnakes 
To Jove’s abode : his all-difcerning eye 
- Alone has feen thy daughtex’s deep retreat. 
Father of gods ana men, ir {till thou fit 
‘Upon the golden feat to which thy hands, 
When I was little, often mildly rais’d me," 
And playful heav'd me toward the endlefs 
heavens, 
‘That in my childifh terror I have fear’d 
To lofe myfelf in air—if thou beeft {till 
My kind fond father—oh!—not toward thy 
head, 
Wor toward the fire-inwoven firmament’s 
Eternal blue, but hither, hither guide her, 
That with her I may leave this prifon-houfe— 
That the dear rays of Phebus may once more 
Beam on my eye, and Luna once again 
Smile from between her filver locks on me. 
Thou hear’{t me, my deariather; thou wilt 
lift me 
Once mere tolight, wilt end my heavy woe, 
And grant me to behold thy fkies rejoicing. 
Guide upwards, up~ 
Recover, my torn heart! Hope, hope can fhed 
The blufh of dawn upon the tempett-cloud. 
‘This ground now feems lefs recky, or the mofs 
Lefs wither’d, Now fuch griefly gioom no more 
Shrouds the black mountain-top; and here 
and there 
J fpy a flowret in the rocky clefts : 
Thefe faded leaves ftill live and linger here 
ThatI may joy therein. Strange! that below 
Should grow the fruit that in the earthly 
gardens 
-Tlov’dto cull. (She gathers a pomegranate.) 
Welcome, thou pleafant fruit 
Let me forget awhile where ’tis 1 pluck thee, 
Again believe myfelf, as heretofore, 
Sporting away the fmiling days of youth 
With heavenly chearfulneis, in blooming 
bowers ( She zats. ) 
For ever redolent of joy and tranfport. . . 
It banifhes my languor, ’tis delicious... . 
Original Poetry. 
What bréaks upon my fleeting happinefs, 
Thro’ the warm bofom of my joy transfixing 
‘The iron claws of hell? What was my 
crime 
In tafting this? Why does the firft of all 
My pleafures’ here produce fuch torment? 
3 Why —_ 
Ye rocks, ncaa impend more horribly 
To wall me round; ye clouds, to prefs me 
lower: 
And from the womb of the abyfs I hear 
A louder howl of ftoems. Thefe wide do- 
minions 
“Seem to a fullenly, ‘* Thou now art 
ours.’ 
THE PARC, UNSEEN. 
Yes! thou art ours; for fothy fire has doom’d. 
Fafting thou waft to have return’d; but now 
The apple makes thee ours. All hail, our 
queen! 
PROSERPINA: 
Haft thou decreed it, father? Wherefore ? 
wherefore ?. 
What had I-done, that thou fhouldf caft me 
trom thee? 
Why not recal me to thy thining throne >— 
Wherefore the apple ? Curfed be its fruit!—« 
Why, if fo fatal, was it made fo fweet? 
THE PARC. 
Mourn not: thou now art ours. 
our queen! 
All hail,’ 
PROSERPINA. 
That Tartarus were not your dwelling-place, 
So could I wifh you thither! That Cocytus 
Were not your bath! then IF had flames to — 
plague you. 
I, I your queen, and cannot work you woe. 
My link to you be then eternal hate. 
Draw fill, ye Danaids! ftill fpin on, ye Fates! 
rage on, ye Faries! 
Unchang'd, eternal be your mifery- 
T rule you, and am only more unbleft. 
THE PARCE. 
To thee-we bow. Hail, mighty queen, our 
queen ! 
PROSERPINA. 
Away | awa ii I curfe seus whole allegiance, 
Oh! how I hate you! and how ten times 
more 
I loath thee—ah ! miethinbe I feel already 
Thy dire embraces-—W herefore ftretch to me 
Thofe hated arms? Go, plunge them in 
Avernus ! 
Call up the horrors of a Stygian night, 
And they will meet thy call; but not my _ 
Jove. 
My hufband and averfion, Pluto, Pluto, 
Give mea fate like that of all thy damned; 
Call it not love, but caft me with thofe arms 
Into deftroying torments. 
THE PARC. 
Hail, our queen! 
Thou now art ours for ever, mighty queen. 
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