BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
CANTO I
THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE
He who first carved a ship and clove the deep,
With unhewn oars made troubled waters leap,
Who dared to trust a bark of fragile wood
To fickle winds and to the surging flood,
At first crept fearful near the coastal line,
Dreading the secrets of the vast brine.
But soon, emboldened, he the bays did span,
And to the south wind spread his canvas fan;
Till, casting off the chains of numbing fear,
Through open seas he learned his path to steer,
And, led by stars that light the Aegean night,
O’er Ionian storms he urged his daring flight.
My swelling heart now bids me boldly sing
The dark-wheeled chariot of the Stygian king;
How stars were dimmed by shadows from below,
And of the Queen who shares that world of woe.
Be far, profane! The divine madness burns,
From mortal thought my frenzied spirit turns;
Apollo fills my breast; the shrines descend,
The foundations rock, the glowing thresholds bend.
Deep from the earth I hear a hollow roar,
The temple shakes on the Cecropian shore;
The snakes of Triptolemus, scaly-bright,
Stretch their rose-crests to greet the holy light.
See Hecate rise with triple heads of dread,
While ivy crowns the youthful Iacchus’ head;
A tiger’s pelt around his form is tied,
As Lydian staves his drunken footsteps guide.
Ye gods of death, whom ghostly hosts obey,
Whose greedy coffers claim all earth's decay;
Ye whom the Styx with winding pale surrounds,
Where steaming Phlegethon o’erleaps his bounds—
Disclose your mysteries, let the truth be told,
The secrets of your sunless world unfold.
What torch of Love did Pluto’s soul subdue?
How from her home the maiden bride he drew?
How Ceres sought her through the weary years,
Watering the thirsty earth with anxious tears,
Till corn was found to grant a nobler feast,
And Dodona’s oaks from service were released.
Of old, the Lord of Erebus did flame
In swelling wrath, and war on gods proclaim,
Since he alone did pass a childless life,
Denied the joys of fatherhood and wife.
Hell’s monsters gather at the trumpet’s sound,
And Furies by a bloody oath are bound;
Tisiphone shakes out her snaky hair,
And calls the shades to leave their dismal lair.
Old Nature’s laws had almost burst their chain,
The Titan brood had seen the light again,
And Aegaeon, from his knotted cables free,
Had struck at Jove with hundred-handed glee.
But the dread Fates, fearing the world's undoing,
Before the King their hoary locks were strewing;
With suppliant tears they touched his iron knees,
The Fates, whose hands twist all our destinies.
First Lachesis, with hair in wild unrest,
The cruel King with solemn speech addressed:
“Great Lord of Night, by whose command we spin,
In whom all ends and origins begin;
Seek not to break the peace our distaffs gave,
Nor let thy brothers find a civil grave.
Why raise thy standards for an impious strife?
Ask Jove for aid—and he will give a wife.”
At this, the King his grim intent delayed,
His savage spirit by her prayer was stayed;
As when fierce Boreas, armed with Getic hail,
Threatens the deep with a tempestuous gale,
But if the King of Winds the portal bars,
His fury dies beneath the silent stars.
Then Mercury he calls, the son of May,
To bear his message to the realms of day;
The winged god appears at his command,
The wand of sleep within his youthful hand.
Pluto, upon his rugged throne of state,
Sits awful in his majesty and hate;
Age-dusty is his sceptre, dark his brow,
The very halls in trembling silence bow.
The triple-headed hound forgets to bay,
And Acheron’s dark waters cease to play.
“Grandchild of Atlas,” thus the Tyrant cried,
“Who walkest where the two worlds do divide,
Bear these my words to Jove: ‘Cruel brother, say,
Must I alone be reft of power and day?
Think’st thou me cowed because no bolts I throw,
Because I rule the sunless world below?
The third and final choice fell to my share,
While thou dost breathe the pleasant starry air;
Yet Amphitrite sleeps in Neptune’s arms,
And Juno yields to thee her queenly charms.
But I, within this empty palace wall,
No children hear, no wife’s sweet accents call.
I swear by Night and by the Stygian flood,
If thou deniest this to my own blood,
I’ll break the chains that hold the Titans fast,
And o’er the sun a veil of darkness cast!’”
He spoke; the messenger to heaven flew.
The Father heard, and well the danger knew;
He pondered long who such a fate would brave,
To leave the sun for the Tartarean cave.
At length his will was fixed. In Henna’s plain,
Fair Ceres dwelt, the Goddess of the grain;
One only daughter did her life adorn,
For after her no other child was born.
Yet Proserpine was worth a thousand more,
The darling of her mother’s golden store;
As a fierce cow protects her hornless young,
So round the maid the mother’s spirit hung.
Now ripe for marriage was the virgin’s state,
And suitors thronged before the palace gate;
Both Mars and Phoebus sought her for a bride,
But golden Ceres cast their suits aside.
To keep her jewel safe from heavenly eyes,
She hid her in the land where Etna lies.
Trinacria once was joined to Italy,
Until the tide transformed the scenery;
Great Nereus broke the mountain walls in twain,
And interflowed the cleft with surging main.
Now three-edged stands the isle against the deep,
Where Pachynum’s tall crags the billows sweep;
Where Lilybaeum feels the Afric roar,
And Pelorus guards the dark Tyrrhenian shore.
Midst all, the charred and smoking peaks of Aetna rise,
The tomb where bruised Enceladus now lies;
Whene’er he shifts his weight from side to side,
The tottering cities feel the mountain slide.
No mortal foot may tread that ash-strewn height,
Where pitch-black clouds oppress the midday light;
Yet though the summit boils with inward heat,
The glowing sparks and ice in compact meet;
Indwelling cold protects the hoary frost,
Lest in the mountain’s fire the snow be lost.
What engine hurls these rocks? What hidden force
Does guide the fiery river’s molten course?
Perhaps the wind, within the cavern pent,
In raging fury seeks a narrow vent;
Or else the sea, compressed in sulfur caves,
Ignites the stone with its rebellious waves.
When Ceres thus had stowed her darling prize,
To Cybele’s tall Phrygian towers she flies;
Her dragon-team through yielding ether glides,
With harmless venom on their golden hides;
Where’er they pass, the fields begin to grain,
And yellow harvests follow in their train.
Now Aetna fades; the goddess, filled with fears,
Bedews her holy cheeks with boding tears:
“Stay safe, dear land, more dear than heaven above,
To thee I trust the fruit of all my love;
No heavy plough shall gall thy happy soil,
But self-sown crops shall mock the reaper's toil.”
Thus having spoke, she reached the Idan wood,
Where Cybele’s eternal temple stood.
Deep in the pine-grove, though the winds be still,
A hollow creaking does the branches fill;
The wild Galli raise their frantic chant,
While Ida echoes to the gloom they pant.
But when the grain-clad goddess comes in view,
The drums are hushed, the choirs their silence rue;
The lions drop their manes in humble greed,
And Cybele descends to greet her peer.
Great Jove from high beheld the moment fair,
And thus to Venus did his heart declare:
“Goddess of love, the Fates have now decreed,
That Pluto shall from loneliness be freed;
Go, lure the maid to play in morning light,
And use thy wiles to conquer Pluto’s night.
Let even Acheron thy passion feel,
And pierce the King’s cold heart with Cupid's steel.”
Venus obeys; with Pallas at her side,
And chaste Diana, o’er the hills they glide;
The path shines bright beneath their divine tread,
Like falling stars that fill the world with dread.
They reached the palace, built by Cyclops’ hand,
Where massy iron walls and portals stand;
No furnace-blast such labor ever knew,
As when the steel for Ceres’ gates they drew.
The halls were ivory, the roof was bright
With beams of bronze and electron’s pale light.
There Proserpine, to pass the lonely day,
Embroidered cloth to wile the hours away.
She wove the seeds of things, the Father’s throne,
And how the elements were joined and known;
How fire sought the pole, how ether glowed,
And how the sea in purple furrows flowed.
With gold she tricked the stars; with gems the shore;
And made the mimic waves with thread to roar.
Five zones she added: one was parched and red,
Where sun-burnt yarn was woven through the thread;
Two mild and fair, for mortal life designed,
And two where frozen winter lay confined.
She wove her uncle’s realm—the seat of Dis—
And wept to see a boding world like this.
But as the doors swung wide, she hid her face,
While maiden blushes lent her form a grace.
The sun now sank beneath the western main,
And Night brought silence in her sable train;
When Pluto, warned, prepared his dark ascent,
On Jove’s command and stolen marriage bent.
Allecto yokes the steeds of Cocytus’ mead,
The swiftest terrors of the Stygian breed:
Orphnaeus fleet, and Aethon swift as light,
Nycteus the black, and Alastor, mark of night.
Before the gates they champ the foaming bit,
And wait for dawn, when Hell’s dark King shall quit
The silent shades, and through the world above,
By force of arms, demand his share of love.
When Orpheus sought his rest and stilled his air,
His task neglected, left in silence there,
The Nymphs lamented for their ravished joy,
And mourning rivers missed the Thracian boy.
Then Nature’s ancient savagery returned;
The heifer for the lyre’s protection yearned,
And viewed the lion’s approach with newfound dread,
For help and tuneful harmony had fled.
The rugged mountains wept to miss his strain,
And woods that followed him now grieved in vain.
But when great Hercules from Argos came,
To Thrace’s plains to win a savior’s name,
And Diomede’s foul stables overthrew,
To feed the steeds on grass, as was their due,
The poet then, to see his land set free,
Resumed his strings with festal ecstasy.
He touched the idle chords with ivory slight;
The winds and waves were stilled in deep delight.
The Hebrus slowed its stream to catch the sound,
And Rhodope leaned near from snowy ground.
The poplar, pine, and oak from Haemus sped,
And even Daphne’s laurel bowed its head.
The dog and hare in playful peace were tied,
The lamb lay down by the grim wolf’s side;
The tiger sported with the deer at play,
And hinds feared not the lion in their way.
He sang the step-dame’s rage, the hero’s might,
The monsters slain in many a bloody fight;
How as a babe he made his mother gasp,
With strangled serpents in his tiny grasp.
"Thee not the Cretan bull with bellowing cry,
Nor Hell’s fierce hound could ever terrify;
Thee not the Nemean lion, now a star,
Nor Erymanthus’ boar could ever bar.
The Amazonian girdles thou hast won,
And Stymphalus’ foul birds are all undone.
The Western cattle thou hast driven home,
And Geryon’s triple heads have met their doom.
Antaeus fell, the Hydra’s heads were shorn,
The swift-foot deer from Diana’s woods was borne.
Cacus’ dark flames were quenched by thy decree,
And Busiris’ blood enriched the Nile for thee.
The Centaurs fell on Pholoe’s reeking height,
And Libya’s giant trembled at thy sight.
The Ocean gazed in awe as thou didst stand,
With all the world’s great weight at thy command;
The heavens poised more sure on thy brave neck,
While sun and stars did thy vast shoulders deck."
So sang the bard. But thou, my patron dear,
Art like a second Hercules appear.
'Tis thou, Florentinus, bids my quill to move,
To wake the Muses in their silent grove,
To rouse the cavern where they long have slept,
And lead the dance that they so long have kept.
The day had not yet struck the western main,
The dawn’s first light flickered in silver vein,
When Proserpine, by Venus’ wiles misled,
Forgot her mother’s care and forward sped.
So Fates decreed. Thrice did the hinges groan,
And Aetna shook with many a hollow moan;
But no dark omen could the maid detain,
As sister-goddesses joined in her train.
First Venus moves, exulting in her art,
With dreams of coming empire in her heart;
Soon shall she rule the ghosts and Chaos dread,
With Pluto’s self a captive to her bed.
Her braided hair a Cyprian pin sustains;
A jeweled brooch her purple cloak restrains.
Behind her Pallas and Diana pace,
Twin virgin powers of courage and of grace.
On Pallas’ helm the Typhon’s form is shown,
With writhing limbs and upper trunk of stone;
Her spear, a tree-like shaft, divides the cloud,
While snakes of Gorgon hide beneath her shroud.
But Diana’s gaze was mild, her beauty bright,
Most like her brother, Phoebus, lord of light;
Her arms were bare, her tresses caught the breeze,
Her Cretan tunic reached her shapely knees,
Whereon the wand'ring Delos seemed to ride,
Surrounded by a sea of golden tide.
Between the two, fair Proserpine is seen,
In height and beauty equal to a queen;
A Pallas, if she bore the shield of war,
A Diana, if the javelin she bore.
Her jasper brooch secures a garment fine,
Wherein the shuttle’s skill appears divine.
There she had wrought the Sun from ancient seed,
And there the Moon, to serve the darkness’ need.
In Tethys’ arms the infant lights are laid,
Whose rosy beams the deep blue plains pervade;
The Titan child emits a gentle flame,
While sister Moon drinks milk of holy name.
The Naiads follow in a crowded throng,
From Gela’s stream and Crinisus along;
From Arethusa’s flood they gather near,
And Cyane, the tallest, doth appear.
So move they like the Amazonian band,
When Hippolyte returns to her own land;
Or like the Lydian Nymphs who dance and play,
Where Hermus pours his golden sands away.
Now Henna, mother of the blooming field,
Beheld the train and to the West-wind kneeled:
"O Zephyrus, thou father of the spring,
To these my meads thy fragrant presence bring.
Let every tree with heavy fruit be crowned,
Let Hybla’s honeyed fame no more abound.
Bring all the scents that Eastern woods bestow,
And through my veins let every spice-wind blow.
So may I be a prize for hands divine,
And goddesses be decked with wreaths of mine."
She spoke; and Zephyrus with wings of dew,
O’er all the earth a nectar-raiment threw.
Where’er he flies, the vivid colors bloom,
And heaven’s dome forgets its winter gloom.
The roses red, the hyacinths of blue,
The purple violets take their lovely hue.
Not Babylonian looms, nor Tyrian dye,
Nor Juno’s bird can with such colors vie;
Nor does the rainbow, in its humid path,
Show half the brilliance that the meadow hath.
A hill arose with gentle, swelling grace,
Where gushing streams bedewed the grassy place.
A wood stood there to temper summer’s heat,
Where winter’s cold maintained a green retreat.
The seafaring pine, the oak of Jove were there,
The funeral cypress and the laurel fair.
Not far from hence the lake of Pergus lies,
Whose waters clear invite the searching eyes;
The eye may pierce the depths of that bright sea,
And view the secrets of its purity.
Then Venus speaks: "Come, sisters, while the sun
With dewy steeds his course has just begun."
She plucked the flower that spoke her own heart’s grief,
While others sought the vales for quick relief.
Like swarming bees on Hybla’s thymy height,
The maiden band pursued their sweet delight.
One weaves the lily with the violet’s head,
By marjoram another’s steps are led;
One wears a rose, and one the privet white,
All robbing Henna of her floral light.
Thee, Hyacinthus, and Narcissus too,
They gather while the fields are bright with dew—
Two lovely boys, now flowers of the spring,
Whose ancient woes the weeping poets sing.
But far beyond the rest, the maid was fired
With such a zest as Ceres' child inspired;
To pluck the meadow's spoil she breathless burned,
And to her baskets, laughing, often turned.
She weaves a crown to deck her tresses fair,
Unknowing of the fate that waits her there.
Now Pallas, she who wakes the trumpet's sound,
In gentler sport among the flowers is found;
She lays aside the spear that shatters gates,
And with soft blooms her helmet decorates.
The iron peak is gay with floral grace,
And blossoms hide the terrors of her face.
Diana, too, forgets the mountain chase,
To bind her locks within that flowery space.
But while they sport, a sudden roar is heard,
And every tower and trembling town is stirred;
None knows the cause, save Paphus’ queen alone,
Who hears in dread the coming chariot’s groan.
For now the King of Souls, with dark design,
Through paths of night begins his steep incline;
Beneath his steeds Enceladus must groan,
While wheels of iron crush the giant’s bone.
The monster writhes beneath the weight of Thrace,
And seeks to halt the god’s unyielding pace;
But Pluto drives across his burning back,
And smoking axles leave a blackened track.
As sappers, hidden in a mine's dark womb,
Rise up to seal an unsuspecting doom,
So Saturn’s third-born son seeks out the light,
And yearns to see his brother’s sky so bright.
But rocks and cliffs deny him any way,
And hold the god within their dark array.
Enraged, he strikes the crags with beam-like rod;
The caverns thunder at the moving god.
Then Lipare is shook; the Cyclops fear,
And drop the bolts they labored to prepare.
As when the trident Neptune’s hand did wield,
To free the waters from the Thessal field;
When Ossa’s peak from Olympus was torn,
And through the rift a rushing sea was borne,
So Sicily, beneath the heavy blow,
Yawned wide to let the Stygian horses go.
The stars forsook their paths; the Bear in dread
Sought out the waves to hide his golden head.
Boötes fled; Orion shook with fear,
As Pluto’s steeds in upper air appear.
Fed on the dark, they loathed the sun’s bright orb,
Whose golden light their smoky breaths absorb.
They bite the curb and seek the Chaos deep,
But soon the lash awakes them from their sleep.
More swift than winter’s flood they gallop on,
Or swifter than the dart by Parthian spun.
Their bits are red with blood, their foam is death,
And poison lingers in their heavy breath.
The Nymphs disperse; the maid is borne away,
And calls for help in piteous dismay.
Then Pallas shows the Gorgon’s hissing hair,
And Diana strings her bow with angry air;
They charge the ravisher with virgin might,
To stop the crime and stay the hellish flight.
Like some fierce lion who has seized a prey,
And stands all fouled with blood in grim display,
So Pluto stands, and scorns the shepherd’s rage,
While Pallas seeks his fury to assuage:
"Lord of the dead," she cries, "what Furies' flame
Has moved thy soul to work this deed of shame?
Let thine own night suffice; avoid our light,
And take thy hell-team from our holy sight.
Why mix the quick and dead?" Her shield she rears,
To stop the horses and to wake their fears;
The Gorgon's snakes she thrusts before their eyes,
And shakes her ashen spear toward the skies.
She would have cast it, but from heaven's height,
The Father’s thunder signaled Pluto’s right;
The red-winged bolt through riven clouds was spun,
To bless the groom and hail his chosen son.
The goddesses gave way; with weeping eyes,
Diana laid her weapons down and sighs:
"Farewell, a long farewell; we must depart,
For Jove’s decree has stilled our helping heart.
Our Sire betrays thee to the silent deep,
Where we no more our sister’s watch can keep.
Now shall the boar and lion roam at will,
Since thou art gone from every sacred hill.
Taygetus and Maenalus shall moan,
And Cynthus weep to find itself alone."
The chariot flies; the maiden beats her breast,
With streaming hair and spirit un-at-rest.
"O Father, why hast thou no bolt for me?
Is this thy love, that I a slave should be?
No giant’s war did I against thee wage,
Nor move the mountains with a rebel’s rage.
What crime is mine, that I must go below,
To lose the light and live in endless woe?
O flowers loved too well! O Venus' snare!
I scorned the mother’s word and mother’s care.
O Mother! If in Ida’s vales thou art,
Or Dindymus, come heal my breaking heart;
Stay Pluto’s reins, and from his mad desire,
Redeem thy child from Hell’s unholy fire."
Her tears and words did even Pluto move,
Who felt the first-born stings of mortal love.
He wiped her weeping eyes with murky cloak,
And thus with soothing words the tyrant spoke:
"Cease, Proserpine, thy heart with fear to gall;
A prouder scepter waits at thy command.
I am that lord whom all the worlds obey,
Whose power through the void maintains its sway.
Think not the light is lost; for thou shalt see
A purer sun and stars that shine for thee.
In fair Elysium, where the golden race
Inhabits fields of everlasting grace,
Soft meads and ever-blooming flowers grow,
Beyond what Henna’s grassy summits know.
A sacred tree with golden fruit is thine,
Where living ore among the leaves shall shine.
Whatever earth or salt-sea waves maintain,
Shall yield to thee and own thy holy reign.
To thy bright feet the purple kings shall crawl,
For death makes equal and consumes them all.
The Fates shall serve thee; Lethe shall be still;
All things shall bow before thy royal will."
So speaking, Pluto urged his steeds along,
And entered Tartarus with gentler song.
The gathered shades in vast assemblies flow,
Like leaves the South-wind scatters to and fro;
As thick as clouds that mass before the rain,
Or sands that shift across the desert plain,
Of every age they throng the dismal tide,
To gaze upon the glory of the bride.
The King himself with joyful mien appears,
And softens now the winter of his years;
Huge Phlegethon uprears his bristly head,
With burning streams his flaming beard is fed.
Selected slaves the royal pair await,
To loose the horses from the chariot’s weight;
In accustomed meads the toil-freed coursers graze,
While others deck the doors in festive blaze.
They hang the curtains, rich with needle-art,
To soothe the trembling of the maiden’s heart;
Elysian matrons gather round their Queen,
To braid her hair and grace the nuptial scene;
With tender words they calm her troubled soul,
And o'er her blushes draw the wedding-veil.
Then joy pervaded all that sunless land,
And festival engaged the buried band;
The flower-crowned spirits sat at meat and song,
To break the silence they had borne so long.
The murk of Hell began to fade away,
And ancient night admitted softer day;
No longer Minos shook the fatal urn,
Nor did the wheel for sad Ixion turn.
The lash was stilled, the punishments were stayed;
Tantalus reached the wave for which he prayed.
Great Tityus stretched his limbs across the soil,
Relieved at last from the devouring spoil;
The vulture from his weary breast was torn,
To grieve that flesh no longer was reborn.
The Furies, too, forgot their ancient ire,
To drain the bowl and quench their torches' fire;
With snakes uncoiled, they pledged the wine-cup deep,
And let their customary vengeance sleep.
The birds flew safe above Avernus' tide,
As Amsanctus’ deadly vapors died;
Old Acheron with milky current flowed,
And Cocytus with wine and ivy glowed.
No thread was slit by Lachesis’s hand,
No funeral dirge was heard across the land;
Death walked no more, no parent wept the dead,
As through the world a sudden peace was spread.
The sailor feared no wave, the knight no spear,
And flourishing cities lost their ancient fear;
Even Charon, crowned with sedge upon his brow,
Sang as he plied his light and weightless prow.
And now the Evening Star of spirits shone,
As to the bridal chamber she was gone.
Star-mantled Night stood by as brideswoman,
To bless the bond that only Fate can span;
The blessed shades raised up their voices high,
Beneath the palace roof, with holy cry:
"O Proserpine, and Pluto, dread and great,
Behold the joys of your conjoined estate!
Pledge mutual troth in intertwining arms,
While Nature waits for new and godly charms;
Grant to the world a child of heavenly grace,
And give to Ceres' line a noble race."
Meanwhile, cloud-girded Iris, at Jove's command,
Bids every god from every sea and land.
With rainbow speed she clears the rushing breeze,
To summon Nymphs and powers of the seas;
The River-gods she calls from caverns deep,
Who start in wonder from their watery sleep.
The starry gates of Heaven are opened wide;
The gods take seats as merit shall decide.
The Sky-powers first, then Ocean's calm-eyed race,
Old Nereus and gray Phorcus find their place.
With Glaucus, Proteus sits—his shifting vein
Now stilled to one accustomed shape again.
The aged Rivers sit; a thousand more
Stand like the youth upon a city’s floor.
Dripping with foam, the Nymphs their sires attend,
While silent Fauns 'neath starry wonders bend.
From high Olympus, Jove the silence broke:
"Once more I care for man," the Father spoke;
"Long have I watched the world in stagnant ease,
Since Saturn reigned 'mid torpid luxuries.
I saw the race in lethargy descend,
And willed that all their easy peace should end.
No more should fields untilled yield golden grain,
Nor honey drip from trees without a pain;
No more should wine from natural fountains flow,
Nor cups be filled where sounding rivers go.
'Twas not from envy—gods no malice bear—
But luxury is virtue's deadly snare.
I woke their spirits with the goad of need,
That industry might sow its civil seed.
"Now Nature cries with many a bitter moan,
And calls me tyrant on a miser’s throne;
She claims I make the world a desert waste,
Where man, like beasts, of acorns learns to taste.
To end her grief, I grant a new decree:
That Ceres, wandering over land and sea,
Shall find her daughter’s tracks, and in her joy,
The gift of corn for every man employ.
Her dragon-yoke through Attic clouds shall fly,
And scatter harvest-gold from out the sky.
But mark my word: if any god shall tell
Who stole the maid to darkness and to Hell,
Though child or spouse, my thunderbolt they’ll feel,
And wish for death beneath my vengeful wheel.
Then, wounded, to my son-in-law they go,
To learn if Pluto guards his realm below."
He spoke; his nod made every star to shake,
And sealed the law that Fates can never break.
Far off, in Sicily’s deep rocky shade,
No certain news had reached the Mother-maid;
Yet boding dreams her quiet soul oppressed,
And phantom terrors robbed her heart of rest.
She sees a spear her quivering bosom tear;
She sees her robes a funeral blackness wear.
The laurel tree, her daughter’s special pride,
She sees hewn down, its branches cast aside;
The weeping Dryads tell of Furies’ hate,
And axes forged within the Stygian gate.
Then Proserpine herself appeared in sleep,
In chains of iron, buried dark and deep.
Gone was the gold that once adorned her head;
Her eyes were dimmed, her rosy beauty fled.
"What crime," cried Ceres, "merits such a fate?
Who binds my child in this most wretched state?"
The phantom spoke: "O mother, hard and cold,
More fierce than lions in the mountain-fold!
Dost thou not care that I, thine only birth,
Am dragged in torment far beneath the earth?
Canst thou still dance where Phrygian cymbals ring,
While I am bound by Hell's immortal King?
If I was born of thee, and not a beast,
From this dark prison let me be released;
Or if the Fates forbid my soul's return,
Come down to see the daughter thou dost mourn."
The clang of chains broke through the mother’s sleep;
She woke to tremble and she woke to weep.
To Cybele she cried: "No more I stay;
My daughter’s safety calls me far away.
I trust no palace, though the Cyclops' fire
Built up the walls to meet my soul's desire.
My crown of ears has fallen to the ground;
My breast is bruised, my tears in floods abound.
The very flute breathes out a funeral strain;
I fear the portents of this hidden pain."
"Go," Cybele replied, "and may the wind
Leave all these heavy omens far behind."
With dragon-yoke, she lashes through the air,
Filled with a mother's frantic, wild despair;
As birds who leave their unfledged young behind,
Fear every snake and every rushing wind.
She reached her home; the gates were open wide,
The hinges rusted, and the guards aside.
The silent halls a tale of ruin told;
She rent her robes, her hair of braided gold.
She found the loom with broken threads displayed,
Where sacrilegious spiders now had strayed.
She kissed the spindles and the scattered toys,
The silent relics of her daughter's joys;
As some sad herdsman seeks a stolen steer,
She called the name that no one stayed to hear.
Deep in the house, Electra she espied,
The faithful nurse who stayed by Proserpine’s side;
The Nymph of Ocean, bowed in dust and gray,
Who wept the child the King had snatched away.
Ceres approached, and when her stifled breath
Could speak of ruin and this house of death,
"What foe is this?" she cried, "what Titan hand
Has dared to strike at me in all the land?
Does Jove still rule? Or have the Giants rose,
To heap up Etna on my daughter’s repose?
Has Typhon moved his back, or from the deep
Did hundred-armed Briareus fiercely leap?
Where is my child? Where is my servant-train?
Did winged Sirens guard her all in vain?"
The nurse Electra trembled, pale with shame,
And loathed the life that bore so great a blame;
Long did she hesitate to speak the word,
Lest certain death should follow what was heard.
"Would that the Giants wrought this ill!" she cried,
"For common ruin is more easily borne with pride.
But gods have conspired—sisters joined the plot;
The wounds of jealousy have marked our lot.
Heaven is our foe, more cruel and more cold
Than any demon in the Stygian fold.
"Within these walls the maid was safely kept,
Herein she laboured, and herein she slept.
But Cytherea came, with smiles of art,
To plant her poison in the maiden’s heart;
Minerva and the Huntress walked beside,
To veil the trap and help the goddess hide.
With many a kiss, they called her 'Sister dear,'
And mocked the mother who had kept her here;
They teased her heart with nectar and with play,
Till Proserpine was led in mind astray.
Now she would try the bow with fingers soft,
Now wear the helmet, holding it aloft;
While Venus spoke of Henna’s flowery mead,
Where spring eternal knows no winter’s greed.
She lured the girl to see the roses bloom,
Not knowing she was beckoning her doom.
Against my tears, away the maiden flew,
To tread the grass and drink the morning dew.
"When noon had mounted to its highest place,
A murky night obscured the sun’s bright face;
The island shook beneath a thundering sound,
As iron hoofs beat hard upon the ground.
None knew the driver—whether Death was he,
Or some dark herald of the world to be.
The meadows withered and the rivers stayed;
The roses fainted in the sudden shade.
When back to night the rushing wheels were borne,
The light returned, but left us all forlorn.
The goddesses were gone. We found, alas,
Poor Cyane half-dead upon the grass;
She tried to speak, but by some venom stilled,
Her very limbs with creeping water filled.
Her hair and arms in liquid streams did flow,
Till at our feet she ran in silent woe.
The Sirens fled to haunt the rocky shore,
Whose songs now stay the ship and moving oar;
While I am left to mourn in this retreat,
The bitter end of all that once was sweet."
As when a tigress, robbed of all her young,
With stripes of fire and a silver tongue,
Pursues the horseman o'er the Persian plain,
Till in the mirror she is checked by pain—
So Ceres raged through all the heavenly height,
Demanding back her child, her soul's delight.
"Give her to me!" she cried to Jove on high,
"I am no Nymph, no daughter of the sky!
I am of Saturn's seed! Where is the law
That keeps the universe in holy awe?
Does Venus dare to show her face of shame,
Fresh from the bonds of her adult'rous name?
And ye, O Virgin Powers, do ye unite
With such a goddess to perform this blight?
What did my daughter do to earn your hate?
Did she disturb your dance or high estate?
She dwelt in Sicily to live in peace,
Yet from your malice found she no release."
She pleaded then: "If I have spoke too bold,
Forgive a mother’s heart, so cold, so old.
I ask her not again; keep what you took;
But grant me, gods, one last and lingering look.
Latona, speak! For thou hast known the smart,
When children's love lies heavy on the heart;
Tell me his name! But why do I entreat?
Your silent tears confirm my own defeat.
It is a war with Heaven! Then I shall go
To seek her through the world of sun and snow.
I’ll scour the Spanish tide and Red Sea sand,
The Alpine frost and every desert land.
I’ll climb the Atlas at the set of sun,
And never rest until my task is done.
Let Jove behold me wandering through the street,
And Juno’s triumph be at last complete!"
So spake she, and to Etna's slope she hied,
To fashion torches for a world so wide;
To light her path through darkness and through dread,
Until she finds the child whom she had bred.
Near Acis’ stream a forest stands profound,
Where Galatea’s snowy limbs abound;
A leafy screen it weaves round Etna’s height,
To shut the summit from the common light.
’Tis here, they say, when Phlegra’s field was won,
Great Jove reposed, his bloody labor done.
The trophies of the Giants clothe each bough,
And signs of victory greet the wanderer now:
Here gaping jaws and monstrous skins are hung,
And bleached bones from slaughtered serpents flung.
The stiffening sloughs still smoke with lightning’s scar,
The proud memorials of a heavenly war.
Aegaeon’s swords the bending branches feel;
Another tree supports Coeus' dark steel.
One pine, more lofty than the rest, sustains
Enceladus’ own arms and reeking stains;
The king of Earth-born sons would fell the tree,
Save that a neighboring oak-oak-sturdy be.
A hallowed awe within the wood resides;
No Cyclops there his wand’ring cattle guides;
Even Polyphemus shuns the sacred gloom,
Lest he should share his fallen brothers' doom.
But Ceres stays not; wrath inflames her soul,
Beyond the reach of sanctity’s control.
She swings her axe, as though to strike at Jove,
And scans the trunks within the ancient grove.
As one who builds a ship for distant seas
Marks out for use the various forest trees—
The tall for yards, the strong for sturdy helm,
Selecting diverse wood from out the realm—
So Ceres seeks her tools. Two cypresses,
Whose heads the very vault of heaven bless,
Stand side by side like sisters on the green,
More fair than any Ida’s crags have seen.
She girds her gown, her marble arms she bares,
And for the double blow her strength prepares.
The axes rain; the trembling trunks give way,
And fall to earth, the forest-nymphs’ dismay.
She lifts the trees, and with her hair behind,
She climbs the mount, more fleet than any wind;
She treads the lava where no foot has stepped,
While through the dark the iron echoes leapt.
As grim Megaera, bent on some dark crime,
Kindles her yew within the Stygian slime,
And fires her brand from Phlegethon’s fierce wave,
To light her path to some Thyestean grave.
When she had reached the mountain's burning throat,
She turned her head, and in the fires remote
Thrust down the trees; the cavern she confined,
And choked the flames that in the deep were shrined.
The mountain thunders with its fire suppressed;
The smoke is trapped within the giant’s breast.
The cypress tops in sulfurous splendor glow,
As Etna’s ashes in the darkness grow.
And lest the light should fail her on the way,
She steeps the wood in drugs that mock the day—
The secret juice that Phaëthon employs,
And that which Moon-led bulls find high-flown joys.
Now silent Night brought sleep to weary men,
But Ceres started on her quest again.
"I little thought," she cried with heavy heart,
"To bear these wedding-torches for thy part!
I hoped for bridal songs and festal light,
Not wandering brands to pierce the gloom of night.
Are we, the gods, the sport of cruel Fate?
Does Lachesis pursue our high estate?
How great I was! By suitors long beset,
The proudest mother of the gods I met.
Thou wert my glory and my only pride;
With thee, I walked as Juno’s equal bride.
Now I am beggared, by the Father’s will—
Yet why blame Jove for this most bitter ill?
’Twas I who left thee, heedless of the foe,
To join the Phrygian revels’ noisy show.
See now my wounds, my breast with gashes torn,
The womb that grieves for her it once has borne!
Where shall I find thee? Under what far sky?
What cruel ravisher has heard thy cry?
I’ll follow every track of winged wheel,
Till I find out what land thy charms conceal.
Will I succeed? Shall I behold thy face,
Still bright with youth and every maiden grace?
Or shall I see thee as the dream portends,
In that dark state where every beauty ends?"
She spoke, and turned from Etna’s guilty slope,
With little comfort and with less of hope.
She cursed the flowers and the ravished ground,
As by the torch the chariot's ruts were found.
Each mark she bathed with many a falling tear,
Her wandering steps pursued by doubt and fear.
A shadow o’er the sea, she glides along;
Her torches strike the coast where shadows throng.
The Tuscan shores and Libya’s waves grow bright,
Reflecting in their depths the sacred light.
Even Scylla’s cave the sudden flash perceives;
The barking dogs are stilled beneath the eaves,
While some, in dumb amaze, forget to cry,
As the grieving Mother passes swiftly by.
CANTO II
THE RAPE OF HELEN
Ye Nymphs of Troy, who by the Xanthus play,
And leave your father’s sands in bright array,
Who cast your snoods and sacred toys aside
To dance on Ida in your maiden pride:
Leave now the sounding flood and tell the tale,
Of how the herdsman’s counsel did prevail.
Say why he sailed the deep, a stranger soul,
Untaught to see the briny billows roll,
And why a cowherd stirred the earth and sky
To bring the ships of bitter destiny.
What ancient feud moved gods to seek the swain,
That he should judge the fruit of heavenly pain?
Ye saw it all: beneath Phalacra's height,
The shepherd sat in noon’s descending light,
While Aphrodite, Queen of every Grace,
Exulted there in that secluded place.
Upon the hills where Haemon's peaks arise,
The song of Peleus mounted to the skies;
By Zeus’ command, the boy of Trojan line
Poured out for every guest the sparkling wine.
To honor then the bride of snowy charm,
With Amphitrite’s grace and noble arm,
From high Olympus and the surging main,
The gods assembled in a shining train.
From fragrant Helicon Apollo led
The Muses’ choir with tresses widely spread;
The West Wind tossed his locks of burnished gold,
As Hera followed, stately to behold.
The Queen of Harmony, with beauty's power,
Delayed not in the Centaur’s leafy bower;
Persuasion came with bridal wreaths in hand,
And Eros’ quiver at her soft command.
Athena cast her helmet from her brow,
To join the feast, though bound by virgin vow;
Nor did the huntress, Leto’s daughter, stay,
But joined the gods upon that festive day.
Even iron Ares, laid his spear aside,
Without his breastplate or his martial pride;
As in Hephaestus’ house he used to tread,
He danced with smiles, by gentle music led.
But Cheiron left unhonored sullen Strife,
Whose presence poisons every joy of life;
And Peleus heeded not the bitter guest,
Which woke a raging fire within her breast.
As wanders through the glen some frantic cow,
Whom stinging gadflies pierce and disallow,
So Strife, by jealous pangs and anger torn,
Sought out a way to make the banquet mourn.
Upon her jeweled seat she could not rest,
But smote the earth with fury unexpressed;
She longed to burst the Titans' ancient bars,
And hurl the throne of Zeus amidst the stars.
To seize the thunderbolt she half-designed,
Yet feared Hephaestus and his fire refined;
She thought to clash the shields in loud alarms,
But shrank in terror from the God of Arms.
At last she thought of that Hesperian mold,
Where grow the fabled apples of the gold;
She plucked the fruit, the seed of future war,
To cast it where the goddesses adore.
Into the choir she whirled the golden prize,
And woke the fire in every deity’s eyes.
First Hera rose, the spouse of thundering Jove,
To claim the fruit for her imperial love;
Then Cypris, as the fairest, claimed the toy,
To be the treasure of her winged boy;
Athena too refused to yield her right,
And filled the hall with clamor and with slight.
But Zeus, observing how the quarrel grew,
Called Hermes forth and gave him counsel true:
"If thou hast heard of Priam’s noble son,
Who tends his herds where Trojan waters run,
Give him the fruit; let Paris now decide,
Whose brow and orbèd eye shall be our pride.
Let her who wins the prize of beauty’s grace,
Bear off the gold to her appointed place."
So Hermes led the goddesses away,
While each prepared her beauty for display.
Cypris with crafty art her hair unbound,
And let her fragrant tresses sweep the ground;
She wreathed her locks with threads of shining gold,
And called her Loves their mother to behold:
"The strife is near! O children, hold me fast,
For by a mortal’s word I shall be cast.
I fear the shepherd’s heart; for Hera reigns
With sovereign scepter o'er the heavenly plains;
Athena leads the ranks in battle's name,
While I am but a weak, unwarlike dame.
No spear I wield, no sturdy bow I bend,
Yet on my honeyed girdle I depend;
That sting of soft desire is all my might,
Which brings both joy and travail to the light."
With rosy fingers Cypris led the way,
And all the Loves moved forward in array.
They reached the summit of the mountain's crest,
Where Paris watched his father’s flocks at rest.
By mountain torrents in the lonely glen,
Far from the busy haunts of mortal men,
He told his bulls and sheep with careful eye,
Beneath the silence of the summer sky.
A goatskin hide about his thighs was flung;
Aside his heavy shepherd's crook was hung.
He played his pipe of reeds, a rustic song,
And forgot his herds as music flowed along;
To Pan and Hermes rose the tuneful sound,
While dogs and cattle rested on the ground.
Only the nymph, wild Echo, gave a cry,
As Paris sang beneath the open sky.
But when he saw the messenger of Jove,
He leaped in fear within the shady grove;
He leaned his reeds against an ancient oak,
Till Hermes thus the silence gently broke:
"Fling far thy pail, leave every grazing fleece,
And give to heaven’s goddesses their peace.
Decide whose face excels in beauty’s light,
And give the fruit to her who shines most bright."
Then Paris looked with quiet, searching gaze,
On every form and all their heavenly ways;
He marked their necks of gold, their ankles fine,
And every movement of the grace divine.
But first Athena took him by the hand,
And sought to lead him with her high command:
"Come, son of Priam! leave the Queen of Air,
And heed not Aphrodite’s golden snare.
Praise thou Athena, who the brave defends;
On me the fate of every town depends.
If thou wilt choose me, I shall make thee great,
The savior of thy people and thy state;
I'll teach thee war and give thee such a name,
That every land shall tremble at thy fame."
Then white-armed Hera spoke: "If I am she
To whom thou givest this golden fruit in fee,
Then Asia’s lordly plains shall all be thine,
And every kingly honor shall entwine.
What need of war? The prince’s word is law,
To keep both brave and weak in silent awe.
Athena’s servants find a sudden grave,
But I will give the kingdom that you crave."
Then Cypris bared her bosom to the light,
And loosed her robe to Paris’ startled sight;
She held the honeyed girdle in her hand,
The greatest power in all the sea and land.
"Accept me, boy, and leave the Asian throne;
What use are shields to those whom Loves have known?
No works of battle do I understand,
For beauty is the strength of every land.
No crown I give, but a more lovely prize:
A bride with starlight in her longing eyes.
Thou shalt in Helen’s royal chamber rest,
And Lacedaemon see thee as her guest!"
The shepherd ceased, and to the Queen of Love
The apple gave, the pride of all above.
That golden fruit, though fair in Cypris' hand,
Was sown as seed of war within his land.
Then she, exulting in the prize she won,
Mocked the two Queens whose glory was undone:
"Yield now," she cried, "ye martial souls, to me!
Beauty I love, and Beauty sets me free.
Where are the Graces, Hera, whom you bore?
They help you not, though Ares rages sore.
Nor does Hephaestus' flame your cause defend;
Your vaunted power has reached a bitter end.
And thou, Athena, born of iron might,
Who fleest the bed to join the bloody fight;
Thou art a creature of a dubious name,
Neither a man nor yet a woman’s frame!"
Thus mocked the Goddess as the prize she bore,
While Paris turned his mind to Phrygia’s shore.
He gathered craftsmen skilled in wood and bronze,
To fell the oaks where Ida’s shadow yawns.
By Phereclus’ hand the cursed ships were made—
A king’s dark frenzy by his skill obeyed.
No help Athena gave to plane the wood;
They launched the hulls upon the briny flood.
With many a prayer to her who gave the prize,
Paris set sail beneath the watchful skies.
Across the Hellespont the vessels flew,
While dark'ning clouds above the water grew;
The leaping sea in dusky coils was wound,
And rain descended with a sullen sound.
Past many a shore the Trojan prince was borne:
By Phyllis' tomb, where she was left to mourn,
Waiting the husband who should ne'er return,
While nine-fold circles made her spirit burn.
Then Phthia’s fields and Mycenae he passed,
Till Sparta’s towers rose before the mast.
By Eurotas’ banks the Grecian city lay,
And there the ships were moored within the bay.
Young Paris rose and washed in snowy tide,
With careful steps to keep his youthful pride;
Lest dust should soil his feet or winds should tear
The golden locks of his well-tended hair.
He walked the streets and scanned the temples high,
Where golden statues met his searching eye.
He passed the shrine where Hyacinthus sleeps,
Whom for his beauty Great Apollo weeps—
The boy whom Zephyrus slew with jealous breath,
Whose blood a flower became to conquer death.
At last he reached the Atreid’s royal gate,
Arrayed in grace to meet his chosen fate.
Not even Dionysus, Zeus’s son,
Could match the beauty which the shepherd won.
Then Helen loosed the bolts and stepped outside,
And saw the guest in all his Trojan pride.
She led him in to sit on silver chairs,
And gazed in silence on his noble airs.
"Is this the Eros of the golden bow?"
She mused in wonder as her heart beat low;
"Or is it the Vine-King, come to visit me?"
But saw no grapes or ivy on his knee.
"Stranger," she cried, "declare thy name and race!
For never saw I such a royal face.
I know the sons of Aeacus and their fame,
But never have I heard thy noble name.
Not in sandy Pylus do thy people dwell,
Nor Phthia’s land, which chieftains know so well."
Then Paris, with a voice as sweet as honey, spoke:
"If thou hast heard of Troy and Priam’s yoke;
Whose walls the gods, Poseidon and the Sun,
Built up in glory till the work was done;
Then know that I am Priam’s princely son,
From Dardanus, whom Zeus himself begun.
The goddesses I judged upon the hill,
And Cypris won the prize by my good will.
She promised me a bride of heavenly grace,
Even thee, the fairest of the Argive race!
The Queen of Wedlock bids us now be one;
Thy husband’s line is mean and quite undone.
The women here have limbs of manly mold,
But thou art Cypris' sister, I am told."
The lady cast her eyes upon the floor,
Then looked upon the stranger she’d adore:
"Did gods indeed thy city’s towers build?
Then with that sight my soul would fain be filled.
Lead me away from Sparta’s weary plain;
I follow thee across the surging main.
No fear of Menelaus holds me now,
Since Cythereia deigns to bless our vow."
The night descended, bringing rest to all,
As sleep within the palace held its thrall.
The gates of dreams were opened to the night:
The ivory gate of lies and horn of light.
Through shadows dark he led the Queen away,
To where the sea-faring vessels anchored lay.
He stowed his freight of war—the lovely prize—
And sailed for Troy beneath the morning skies.
But young Hermione, with grief distressed,
Tore at her veil and smote her tender breast.
"Where is my mother?" to her maids she cried,
"Who yesternight was sleeping at my side?
She took the keys and closed the chamber door,
But now her place is empty on the floor."
The handmaids wailed to hear the daughter’s moan,
And sought to comfort her who sat alone:
"Cease now thy tears; she will return again,
From some assembly or the flowery plain.
Perhaps she bathes where Eurotas’ waters flow,
And lingers where the dewy grasses grow."
The weeping maiden spoke her heart's despair:
"She knows the river-paths and gardens fair;
She knows where roses bloom and waters creep—
Why stays she now while all the planets sleep?
The stars arise, yet mother comes not home;
On what wild mountain does her spirit roam?
Has some fierce beast destroyed her in the wild?
Yet even lions fear Jove’s holy child.
Or did she fall from out her chariot’s seat,
To lie where dust and lonely thickets meet?
I’ve searched the woods and scanned each leafy bough,
Yet find no trace of her dear presence now.
Has the Eurotas, with its murmuring deep,
Enfolded her within its watery sleep?
Yet there the Naiads dwell beneath the wave,
Who shield all women from a watery grave."
Thus wailed the girl, and leaned her weary head,
As Sleep, the twin of Death, his influence shed.
For so the Fates decreed that both should share
The heavy burden of a mortal’s care;
Thus women, when their eyes are dimmed with grief,
In sudden slumber find a brief relief.
Amidst the maze of dreams she seemed to see
Her mother’s face in all its majesty;
The startled maiden cried with bitter breath:
"Why didst thou leave me in a sleep like death?
What hill or mountain have I failed to tread?
Dost thou pursue where Aphrodite led?"
Then Tyndareus’ daughter spoke a word of woe:
"Blame me not, child, for I have suffered so.
That crafty stranger who was here but late,
Has borne me off to meet a hidden fate!"
The maiden leaped from out her restless dream,
And, finding naught, let forth a piercing scream:
"Ye birds, who through the paths of ether fly,
To distant Crete and Menelaus hie!
Tell him a lawless man has crossed his hall,
And Sparta’s glory suffers in her fall!"
To empty air she gave her piteous cry,
As for her mother’s face she sought to spy.
Meanwhile the groom, with Helen by his side,
Across the Hellespont conveyed his bride;
Past Cicon towns and through the Dardan gate,
They reached the havens of their future fate.
Cassandra, from the city’s highest tower,
Beheld the pair and felt the coming hour;
She tore her hair and cast her veil away,
To see the ruin of that fated day.
But Troy unbarred her gates with joyful pride,
To welcome home the woe-bringing bride.