The technical details and mechanical skill of this group excel anything of the kind ever attempted, and the work is such as would beforehand have been pronounced an impossibility.
Proserpine.
“The Maiden.”
“What ails her that she comes not home?
Demeter seeks her far and wide,
And gloomy browed doth ceaseless roam
From many a morn till eventide.
‘My life, immortal though it be,
Is naught!’ she cried, ‘for want of thee,