Enter Iris.
CERES.
Speak, heavenly Iris! let thy words be poured
Into my drooping soul, like dews of eve
On a too long parched field.—Where is my Proserpine?
IRIS.
Sister of Heaven, as by Joves throne I stood
The voice of thy deep prayer arose,—it filled
The heavenly courts with sorrow and dismay:
The Thunderer frowned, & heaven shook with dread
I bear his will to thee, ’tis fixed by fate,
Nor prayer nor murmur e’er can alter it.
If Proserpine while she has lived in hell
Has not polluted by Tartarian food
Her heavenly essence, then she may return,
And wander without fear on Enna’s plain,
Or take her seat among the Gods above.
If she has touched the fruits of Erebus,
She never may return to upper air,
But doomed to dwell amidst the shades of death,
The wife of Pluto and the Queen of Hell.
CERES.
Joy treads upon the sluggish heels of care!
The child of heaven disdains Tartarian food.
Pluto[,] give up thy prey! restore my child!
IRIS.
Soon she will see again the sun of Heaven,
By gloomy shapes, inhabitants of Hell,
Attended, and again behold the field
Of Enna, the fair flowers & the streams,
Her late delight,—& more than all, her Mother.
INO.
Our much-loved, long-lost Mistress, do you come?
And shall once more your nymphs attend your steps?
Will you again irradiate this isle—
That drooped when you were lost?[[1]] & once again
Trinacria smile beneath your Mother’s eye?
(Ceres and her companions are ranged on one side in eager expectation; from, the cave on the other, enter Proserpine, attended by various dark & gloomy shapes bearing torches; among which Ascalaphus. Ceres & Proserpine embrace;—her nymphs surround her.)
CERES.
Welcome, dear Proserpine! Welcome to light,
To this green earth and to your Mother’s arms.
You are too beautiful for Pluto’s Queen;
In the dark Stygian air your blooming cheeks
Have lost their roseate tint, and your bright form
Has faded in that night unfit for thee.
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?