Loved by Jupiter, she had by the God a daughter called Proserpine, whom
Pluto, God of Hell, seized near the beautiful vale of Enna, in Sicily, and
carried with him to his dismal kingdom. Ceres, whose love for her child,
almost surpassed even the usual love of mothers, placed on Mount Etna two
torches, and sought her "from morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,"
throughout the world. At last, when she deemed her search well nigh
hopeless, she was informed by the nymph Arethusa of the dwelling place of
her child, and of the name of him who had torn her beloved one from her
paternal care.
Ceres implored Jupiter to interfere, and withdraw her from the infernal
regions, which he agreed to do, but found it would be beyond his power, as,
by a decree of Destiny, she would not be able to quit her place of
concealment, should she have partaken of any nourishment while there; and
it was discovered that though she had refused all ordinary food, she had
been tempted while in the gardens of Pluto, to pluck a pomegranate, and to
eat a few of its seeds. This was sufficient; and the utmost Ceres could
obtain, was that she should pass six months of the year with her mother and
six months with Pluto, when she became his wife.
"Near Enna's walls a spacious lake is spread,
Famed for the sweetly singing swans it bred;
Pergusa is its name: and never more
Were heard, or sweeter sounds than on Cayster's shore.
Woods crown the lake, and Phoebus ne'er invades
The tufted fences or offends the shades:
Fresh fragrant breezes fan the verdant bowers,
And the moist ground smiles with enamelled flowers,
The cheerful birds their airy carols sing,
And the whole year is one eternal spring.
Here while young Proserpine, among the maids,
Diverts herself in these delicious shades;
While like a child with busy speed and care,
She gathers lilies here, and violets there;
While first to fill her little lap she strives,
Hell's grizzly monarch at the shades arrives;
Sees her thus sporting on the flowery green,
And loves the blooming maid as soon as seen.
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The frighted Goddess to her mother cries:
But all in vain, for now far off she flies;
His urgent flame impatient of delay,
Swift as his thought he seized the beauteous prey,
And bore her in his sooty car away.
Far she behind her leaves her virgin train;
To them too cries, and cries to them in vain.
And while with passion she repeats her call,
The violets from her lap and lilies fall:
She misses them, poor heart! and makes new moan:
Her lilies, oh! are lost, her violets gone.
O'er hills the ravisher, and valleys speeds,
By name encouraging his foamy steeds;
He rattles o'er their necks the rusty reins,
And ruffles with the stroke their shaggy manes
Throws to his dreadful steeds the slackened rein,
And strikes his iron sceptre through the main;
The depths profound thro' yielding waves he cleaves,
And to hell's centre a free passage leaves;
Down sinks his chariot, and his realms of night
The God soon reaches with a rapid flight."