Both silent; but, as whispered soft and low
The lyre, stern Proserpine remembered how
A girl plucked flowers. As nursery rhymes
On dying ears, returned old happy times,
Sunshine, and the sweet thought, if mixed with pain,
A mother’s toil to have her child again.
Paradise for Hell’s Queen once more to know
That She had heart to feel for others’ woe!—
For her Lord to see, transfigured, ere a crown
Burned on her brow, the maid he had brought down