PROSERPINE
&
MIDAS
Two unpublished Mythological Dramas
by
MARY SHELLEY
Edited with Introduction
by
A. KOSZUL
PREFATORY NOTE.
The editor came across the unpublished texts included in this volume as
early as 1905. Perhaps he ought to apologize for delaying their
appearance in print. The fact is he has long been afraid of overrating
their intrinsic value. But as the great Shelley centenary year has
come, perhaps this little monument of his wife’s collaboration may take
its modest place among the tributes which will be paid to his memory.
For Mary Shelley’s mythological dramas can at least claim to be the
proper setting for some of the most beautiful lyrics of the poet, which
so far have been read in undue isolation. And even as a literary sign
of those times, as an example of that classical renaissance which the
romantic period fostered, they may not be altogether negligible.
These biographical and literary points have been dealt with in an
introduction for which the kindest help was long ago received from the
late Dr. Garnett and the late Lord Abinger. Sir Walter Raleigh was also
among the first to give both encouragement and guidance. My friends M.
Emile Pons and Mr. Roger Ingpen have read the book in manuscript. The
authorities of the Bodleian Library and of the Clarendon Press have
been as generously helpful as is their well-known wont. To all the
editor wishes to record his acknowledgements and thanks.
STRASBOURG.
INTRODUCTION.
I.
‘The compositions published in Mrs. Shelley’s lifetime afford but an
inadequate conception of the intense sensibility and mental vigour of
this extraordinary woman.’
Thus wrote Dr. Garnett, in 1862 (Preface to his _Relics of Shelley_).
The words of praise may have sounded unexpectedly warm at that date.
Perhaps the present volume will make the reader more willing to
subscribe, or less inclined to demur.
Mary Godwin in her younger days certainly possessed a fair share of
that nimbleness of invention which generally characterizes women of
letters. Her favourite pastime as a child, she herself testifies[1],
had been to write stories. And a dearer pleasure had been—to use her
own characteristic abstract and elongated way of putting it—‘the
following up trains of thought which had for their subject the
formation of a succession of imaginary incidents’. All readers of
Shelley’s life remember how later on, as a girl of nineteen—and a two
years’ wife—she was present, ‘a devout but nearly silent listener’, at
the long symposia held by her husband and Byron in Switzerland (June
1816), and how the pondering over ‘German horrors’, and a common
resolve to perpetrate ghost stories of their own, led her to imagine
that most unwomanly of all feminine romances, _Frankenstein_. The
paradoxical effort was paradoxically successful, and, as publishers’
lists aver to this day, Frankenstein’s monster has turned out to be the
hardest-lived specimen of the ‘raw-head-and-bloody-bones’ school of
romantic tales. So much, no doubt, to the credit of Mary Shelley. But
more creditable, surely, is the fact that she was not tempted, as
‘Monk’ Lewis had been, to persevere in those lugubrious themes.
Although her publishers—_et pour cause_—insisted on styling her ‘the
author of Frankenstein’, an entirely different vein appears in her
later productions. Indeed, a quiet reserve of tone, a slow, sober, and
sedate bearing, are henceforth characteristic of all her literary
attitudes. It is almost a case of running from one to the other
extreme. The force of style which even adverse critics acknowledged in
_Frankenstein_ was sometimes perilously akin to the most disputable
kinds of romantic rant. But in the historical or society novels which
followed, in the contributions which graced the ‘Keepsakes’ of the
thirties, and even—alas—in the various prefaces and commentaries which
accompanied the publication of so many poems of Shelley, his wife
succumbed to an increasing habit of almost Victorian reticence and
dignity. And those later novels and tales, though they sold well in
their days and were kindly reviewed, can hardly boast of any reputation
now. Most of them are pervaded by a brooding spirit of melancholy of
the ‘moping’ rather than the ‘musical’ sort, and consequently rather
ineffective as an artistic motive. Students of Shelley occasionally
scan those pages with a view to pick some obscure ‘hints and
indirections’, some veiled reminiscences, in the stories of the
adventures and misfortunes of _The Last Man_ or _Lodore_. And the books
may be good biography at times—they are never life.
Altogether there is a curious contrast between the two aspects,
hitherto revealed, of Mary Shelley’s literary activities. It is as if
the pulse which had been beating so wildly, so frantically, in
_Frankenstein_ (1818), had lapsed, with _Valperga_ (1823) and the rest,
into an increasingly sluggish flow.
The following pages may be held to bridge the gap between those two
extremes in a felicitous way. A more purely artistic mood, instinct
with the serene joy and clear warmth of Italian skies, combining a good
deal of youthful buoyancy with a sort of quiet and unpretending
philosophy, is here represented. And it is submitted that the little
classical fancies which Mrs. Shelley never ventured to publish are
quite as worthy of consideration as her more ambitious prose works.
For one thing they give us the longest poetical effort of the writer.
The moon of _Epipsychidion_ never seems to have been thrilled with the
music of the highest spheres. Yet there were times when Shelley’s
inspiration and example fired her into something more than her usual
calm and cold brilliancy.
One of those periods—perhaps the happiest period in Mary’s life—was
during the early months in Italy of the English ‘exiles’. ‘She never
was more strongly impelled to write than at this time; she felt her
powers fresh and strong within her; all she wanted was some motive,
some suggestion to guide her in the choice of a subject.’[2]
Shelley then expected her to try her hand at a drama, perhaps on the
terrible story of the Cenci, or again on the catastrophes of Charles
the First. Her _Frankenstein_ was attracting more attention than had
ever been granted to his own works. And Shelley, with that touching
simplicity which characterized his loving moments, showed the greatest
confidence in the literary career of his wife. He helped her and
encouraged her in every way. He then translated for her Plato’s
_Symposium_. He led her on in her Latin and Italian studies. He wanted
her—probably as a sort of preliminary exercise before her flight into
tragedy—to translate Alfieri’s _Myrrha_. ‘Remember _Charles the First_,
and do you be prepared to bring at least some of _Myrrha_ translated,’
he wrote; ‘remember, remember _Charles the First_ and _Myrrha_,’ he
insisted; and he quoted, for her benefit, the presumptuous aphorism of
Godwin, in _St. Leon_, ‘There is nothing which the human mind can
conceive which it may not execute’.[3]
But in the year that followed these auspicious days, the strain and
stress of her life proved more powerful on Mary Shelley than the
inspiration of literature. The loss of her little girl Clara, at
Venice, on the 24th of September 1818, was cruel enough. However, she
tried hard not to show the ‘pusillanimous disposition’ which, Godwin
assured his daughter, characterizes the persons ‘that sink long under a
calamity of this nature’.[4] But the death of her boy, William, at
Rome, on the 4th of June 1819, reduced her to a ‘kind of despair’.
Whatever it could be to her husband, Italy no longer was for her a
‘paradise of exiles’. The flush and excitement of the early months, the
‘first fine careless rapture’, were for ever gone. ‘I shall never
recover that blow,’ Mary wrote on the 27th of June 1819; ‘the thought
never leaves me for a single moment; everything on earth has lost its
interest for me,’ This time her imperturbable father ’philosophized’ in
vain. With a more sympathetic and acuter intelligence of her case,
Leigh Hunt insisted (July 1819) that she should try and give her
paralysing sorrow some literary expression, ‘strike her pen into
some... genial subject... and bring up a fountain of gentle tears for
us’. But the poor childless mother could only rehearse her
complaint—‘to have won, and thus cruelly to have lost’ (4 August 1819).
In fact she had, on William’s death, discontinued her diary.
Yet on the date just mentioned, as Shelley reached his twenty-seven
years, she plucked up courage and resumed the task. Shelley, however
absorbed by the creative ardour of his _Annus mirabilis_, could not but
observe that his wife’s ‘spirits continued wretchedly depressed’ (5
August 1819); and though masculine enough to resent the fact at times
more than pity it, he was human enough to persevere in that habit of
co-operative reading and writing which is one of the finest traits of
his married life. ‘I write in the morning,’ his wife testifies, ‘read
Latin till 2, when we dine; then I read some English book, and two
cantos of Dante with Shelley’[5] —a fair average, no doubt, of the
homely aspect of the great days which produced _The Cenci_ and
_Prometheus_.
On the 12th November, in Florence, the birth of a second son, Percy
Florence Shelley, helped Mary out of her sense of bereavement.
Subsequent letters still occasionally admit ‘low spirits’. But the
entries in the Journal make it clear that the year 1819-20 was one of
the most pleasantly industrious of her life. Not Dante only, but a
motley series of books, great and small, ancient and modern, English
and foreign, bespoke her attention. Not content with Latin, and the
extemporized translations which Shelley could give her of Plato’s
_Republic_, she started Greek in 1820, and soon came to delight in it.
And again she thought of original composition. ‘Write’, ‘work,’—the
words now occur daily in her Journal. These must mainly refer to the
long historical novel, which she had planned, as early as 1819,[6]
under the title of _Castruccio_, _Prince of Lucca_, and which was not
published until 1823, as _Valperga_. It was indeed a laborious task.
The novel ‘illustrative of the manners of the Middle Ages in Italy’ had
to be ‘raked out of fifty old books’, as Shelley said.[7]
But heavy as the undertaking must have been, it certainly did not
engross all the activities of Shelley’s wife in this period. And it
seems highly probable that the two little mythological dramas which we
here publish belong to this same year 1820.
The evidence for this date is as follows. Shelley’s lyrics, which these
dramas include, were published by his wife (_Posthumous Poems_, 1824)
among the ‘poems written in 1820’. Another composition, in blank verse,
curiously similar to Mary’s own work, entitled _Orpheus_, has been
allotted by Dr. Garnett (_Relics of Shelley_, 1862) to the same
category.[8] Again, it may well be more than a coincidence, that the
Proserpine motive occurs in that passage from Dante’s _Purgatorio_,
canto 28, on ‘Matilda gathering flowers’, which Shelley is known to
have translated shortly before Medwin’s visit in the late autumn of
1820.
O come, that I may hear
Thy song: like Proserpine, in Enna’s glen,
Thou seemest to my fancy,—singing here,
And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden, when
She lost the spring and Ceres her more dear.[9]
But we have a far more important, because a direct, testimony in a
manuscript addition made by Thomas Medwin in the margin of a copy of
his _Life of Shelley_ (1847).[10] The passage is clearly
intended—though chronology is no more than any other exact science the
‘forte’ of that most tantalizing of biographers—to refer to the year
1820.
‘Mrs. Shelley had at this time been writing some little Dramas on
classical subjects, one of which was the Rape of Proserpine, a very
graceful composition which she has never published. Shelley contributed
to this the exquisite fable of Arethusa and the Invocation to
Ceres.—Among the Nymphs gathering flowers on Enna were two whom she
called Ino and Uno, names which I remember in the Dialogue were
irresistibly ludicrous. She also wrote one on Midas, into which were
introduced by Shelley, in the Contest between Pan and Apollo, the
Sublime Effusion of the latter, and Pan’s characterised Ode.’
This statement of Medwin finally settles the question. The ‘friend’ at
whose request, Mrs. Shelley says,[11] the lyrics were written by her
husband, was herself. And she was the author of the dramas.[12]
The manuscript (Bodleian Library, MS. Shelley, d. 2) looks like a cheap
exercise-book, originally of 40, now of 36 leaves, 8 1/4 x 6 inches, in
boards. The contents are the dramas here presented, written in a clear
legible hand—the equable hand of Mrs. Shelley.[13] There are very few
words corrected or cancelled. It is obviously a fair copy. Mr. C. D.
Locock, in his _Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian
Library_ (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1903, pp. 24-25), has already
pointed out the valuable emendations of the ‘received’ text of
Shelley’s lyrics which are found here. In fact the only mystery is why
neither Shelley, nor Mary in the course of her long widowed years,
should have published these curious, and surely not contemptible,
by-products of their co-operation in the fruitful year 1820.
Footnotes
[1] Preface to the 1831 edition of _Frankenstein_.
[2] Mrs. Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, i. 216.
[3] Letter from Padua, 22 September 1818.
[4] 27 October 1818
[5] Letter to Mrs. Hunt, 28 August 1819.
[6] She had ‘thought of it’ at Marlow, as appears from her letter to
Mrs. Gisborne, 30 June 1821 (in Mrs. Marshall, i. p. 291); but the
materials for it were not found before the stay at Naples, and it was
not actually begun ‘till a year afterwards, at Pisa’ (ibid.).
[7] Letter to T. L. Peacock, November 1820.
[8] Dr. Garnett, in his prefatory note, states that Orpheus ‘exists
only in a transcript by Mrs. Shelley, who has written in playful
allusion to her toils as amanuensis _Aspetto fin che il diluvio cala,
ed allora cerco di posare argine alle sue parole_’. The poem is thus
supposed to have been Shelley’s attempt at improvisation, if not
indeed a translation from the Italian of the ‘improvvisatore’ Sgricci.
The Shelleys do not seem to have come to know and hear Sgricci before
the end of December 1820. The Italian note after all has no very clear
import. And Dr. Garnett in 1905 inclined to the view that _Orpheus_
was the work not of Shelley, but of his wife. A comparison of that
fragment and the dramas here published seems to me to suggest the same
conclusion, though in both cases Mary Shelley must have been helped by
her husband.
[9] As published by Medwin, 1834 and 1847.
[10] The copy, 2 vols., was sold at Sotheby’s on the 6th December
1906: Mr. H. Buxton Forman (who was, I think, the buyer) published the
contents in _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, By Thomas Medwin, A New
Edition printed from a copy copiously amended and extended by the
Author_ . . . Milford, 1913. The passage here quoted appears on p. 27
of the 2nd vol. of the 1847 edition (Forman ed., p. 252)
[11] The Hymns of Pan and Apollo were first published by Mrs. Shelley
in _the Posthumous Poems_, 1824, with a note saying that they had been
‘written at the request of a friend to be inserted in a drama on the
subject of Midas’. _Arethusa_ appeared in the same volume, dated
‘Pisa, 1820’. Proserpine’s song was not published before the first
collected edition of 1839.
[12] Not E. E. Williams (Buxton Forman, ed. 1882, vol. iv, p. 34). The
manuscript of the poetical play composed about 1822 by the latter,
‘The Promise’, with Shelley’s autograph poem (‘Night! with all thine
eyes look down’), was given to the Bodleian Library in 1914.
[13] Shelley’s lyrics are also in his wife’s writing—Mr. Locock is
surely mistaken in assuming two different hands to this manuscript
(_The Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley_, Methuen, 1909, vol. iii, p.
xix).
II.
For indeed there is more than a personal interest attached to these
writings of Mrs. Shelley’s. The fact that the same mind which had
revelled, a few years earlier, in the fantastical horrors of
Frankenstein’s abortive creation, could now dwell on the melancholy
fate of Proserpine or the humorous disappointment of Midas, and delight
in their subtle poetical or moral symbolism—this fact has its
significance. It is one of the earliest indications of the revival, in
the heart of Romanticism, of the old love of classical myths and
classical beauty.
The subject is a wide one, and cannot be adequately dealt with in this
place. But a few words may not be superfluous for a correct historical
appreciation of Mrs. Shelley’s attempt.
How deficient had been the sense of classical beauty in the so-called
classical age of English literature, is a trite consideration of
criticism. The treatment of mythology is particularly conclusive on
this point. Throughout the ‘Augustan’ era, mythology was approached as
a mere treasure-house of pleasant fancies, artificial decorations,
‘motives’, whether sumptuous or meretricious. Allusions to Jove and
Venus, Mercury, Apollo, or Bacchus, are of course found in every other
page of Dryden, Pope, Prior, Swift, Gay, and Parnell. But no fresh
presentation, no loving interpretation, of the old myths occur
anywhere. The immortal stories were then part and parcel of a sort of
poetical curriculum through which the whole school must be taken by the
stern masters Tradition and Propriety. There is little to be wondered
at, if this matter of curriculum was treated by the more passive
scholars as a matter of course, and by the sharper and less reverent
disciples as a matter of fun. Indeed, if any personality is then
evinced in the adaptation of these old world themes, it is generally
connected with a more or less emphatic disparagement or grotesque
distortion of their real meaning.
When Dryden, for example, makes use of the legend of Midas, in his
_Wife of Bath’s Tale_, he makes, not Midas’s minister, but his queen,
tell the mighty secret—and thus secures another hit at woman’s
loquacity.
Prior’s _Female Phaëton_ is a younger sister, who, jealous of her
elder’s success, thus pleads with her ‘mamma’:
I’ll have my earl as well as she
Or know the reason why.
And she wants to flaunt it accordingly.
Finally,
Fondness prevailed; mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart’s desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
Pandora, in Parnell’s _Hesiod or the Rise of Woman_, is only a
‘shining vengeance...
A pleasing bosom-cheat, a specious ill’
sent by the gods upon earth to punish the race of Prometheus.
The most poetical fables of Greece are desecrated by Gay into mere
miniatures for the decoration of his _Fan_.
Similar instances abound later on. When Armstrong brings in an
apostrophe to the Naiads, it is in the course of a _Poetical Essay on
the Art of Preserving Health_. And again, when Cowper stirs himself to
intone an _Ode to Apollo_, it is in the same mock-heroic vein:
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That to the wrong side leaning
Indite much metre with much pains
And little or no meaning...
Even in Gray’s—‘Pindaric Gray’s’—treatment of classical themes, there
is a sort of pervading _ennui_, or the forced appreciativeness of a
gouty, disappointed man. The daughter of Jove to whom he dedicates his
hymns too often is ‘Adversity’. And classical reminiscences have, even
with him, a dull musty tinge which recalls the antiquarian in his
Cambridge college-rooms rather than the visitor to Florence and Rome.
For one thing, his allusions are too many, and too transitory, to
appear anything but artistic tricks and verse-making tools. The ‘Aegean
deep’, and ‘Delphi’s steep’, and ‘Meander’s amber waves’, and the
‘rosy-crowned Loves’, are too cursorily summoned, and dismissed, to
suggest that they have been brought in for their own sweet sakes.
It was thus with all the fine quintessences of ancient lore, with all
the pearl-like accretions of the faiths and fancies of the old world:
they were handled about freely as a kind of curious but not so very
rare coins, which found no currency in the deeper thoughts of our
modern humanity, and could therefore be used as a mere badge of the
learning and taste of a literary ‘coterie’.
The very names of the ancient gods and heroes were in fact assuming
that abstract anaemic look which common nouns have in everyday
language. Thus, when Garrick, in his verses _Upon a Lady’s Embroidery_,
mentions ‘Arachne’, it is obvious that he does not expect the reader to
think of the daring challenger of Minerva’s art, or the Princess of
Lydia, but just of a plain spider. And again, when Falconer, in his
early _Monody on the death of the Prince of Wales_, expresses a
rhetorical wish
‘to aid hoarse howling Boreas with his sighs,’
that particular son of Astræus, whose love for the nymph Orithyia was
long unsuccessful, because he could not ‘sigh’, is surely far from the
poet’s mind; and ‘to swell the wind’, or ‘the gale’, would have served
his turn quite as well, though less ‘elegantly’.
Even Gibbon, with all his partiality for whatever was pre- or post-
Christian, had indeed no better word than ‘elegant’ for the ancient
mythologies of Greece and Rome, and he surely reflected no particularly
advanced opinion when he praised and damned, in one breath, ‘the
pleasant and absurd system of Paganism.’[1] No wonder if in his days,
and for a long time after, the passionate giants of the Ages of Fable
had dwindled down to the pretty puppets with which the daughters of the
gentry had to while away many a school hour.
But the days of this rhetorical—or satirical, didactic—or perfunctory,
treatment of classical themes were doomed. It is the glory of
Romanticism to have opened ‘magic casements’ not only on ‘the foam of
perilous seas’ in the West, but also on
the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now
From ancient melody had ceased.[2]
Romanticism, as a freshening up of all the sources of life, a general
rejuvenescence of the soul, a ubiquitous visiting of the spirit of
delight and wonder, could not confine itself to the fields of mediaeval
romance. Even the records of the Greek and Roman thought assumed a new
beauty; the classical sense was let free from its antiquarian trammels,
and the perennial fanes resounded to the songs of a more impassioned
worship.
The change, however, took some time. And it must be admitted that in
England, especially, the Romantic movement was slow to go back to
classical themes. Winckelmann and Goethe, and Chénier—the last, indeed,
practically all unknown to his contemporaries—had long rediscovered
Antiquity, and felt its pulse anew, and praised its enduring power,
when English poetry had little, if anything, to show in answer to the
plaintive invocation of Blake to the Ancient Muses.
The first generation of English Romantics either shunned the subject
altogether, or simply echoed Blake’s isolated lines in isolated
passages as regretful and almost as despondent. From Persia to Paraguay
Southey could wander and seek after exotic themes; his days could be
‘passed among the dead’—but neither the classic lands nor the classic
heroes ever seem to have detained him. Walter Scott’s ‘sphere of
sensation may be almost exactly limited by the growth of heather’, as
Ruskin says;[3] and when he came to Rome, his last illness prevented
him from any attempt he might have wished to make to enlarge his field
of vision. Wordsworth was even less far-travelled, and his home-made
poetry never thought of the ‘Pagan’ and his ‘creed outworn’, but as a
distinct _pis-aller_ in the way of inspiration.[4] And again, though
Coleridge has a few magnificent lines about them, he seems to have even
less willingly than Wordsworth hearkened after
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion.[5]
It was to be otherwise with the later English Romantic poets. They
lived and worked at a time when the whole atmosphere and even the
paraphernalia of literary composition had just undergone a considerable
change. After a period of comparative seclusion and self-concentration,
England at the Peace of Amiens once more found its way to Europe—and
vice versa. And from our point of view this widening of prospects is
especially noticeable. For the classical revival in Romanticism appears
to be closely connected with it.
It is an alluring subject to investigate. How the progress of
scholarship, the recent ‘finds’ of archaeology, the extension of
travelling along Mediterranean shores, the political enthusiasms evoked
by the stirrings of young Italy and young Greece, all combined to
reawaken in the poetical imagination of the times the dormant memories
of antiquity has not yet been told by the historians of literature.[6]
But—and this is sufficient for our purpose—every one knows what the
Elgin Marbles have done for Keats and Shelley; and what inspirations
were derived from their pilgrimages in classic lands by all the poets
of this and the following generation, from Byron to Landor. Such
experiences could not but react on the common conception of mythology.
A knowledge of the great classical sculpture of Greece could not but
invest with a new dignity and chastity the notions which so far had
been nurtured on the Venus de’ Medici and the Belvedere Apollo—even
Shelley lived and possibly died under their spell. And ‘returning to
the nature which had inspired the ancient myths’, the Romantic poets
must have felt with a keener sense ‘their exquisite vitality’.[7] The
whole tenor of English Romanticism may be said to have been affected
thereby.
For English Romanticism—and this is one of its most distinctive
merits—had no exclusiveness about it. It was too spontaneous, one would
almost say, too unconscious, ever to be clannish. It grew, untrammelled
by codes, uncrystallized into formulas, a living thing always, not a
subject-matter for grandiloquent manifestoes and more or less dignified
squabbles. It could therefore absorb and turn to account elements which
seemed antagonistic to it in the more sophisticated forms it assumed in
other literatures. Thus, whilst French Romanticism—in spite of what it
may or may not have owed to Chénier—became often distinctly,
deliberately, wilfully anti-classical, whilst for example[8] Victor
Hugo in that all-comprehending _Légende des Siècles_ could find room
for the Hegira and for Zim-Zizimi, but did not consecrate a single line
to the departed glories of mythical Greece, the Romantic poets of
England may claim to have restored in freshness and purity the religion
of antiquity. Indeed their voice was so convincing that even the great
Christian chorus that broke out afresh in the Victorian era could not
entirely drown it, and Elizabeth Barrett had an apologetic way of
dismissing ‘the dead Pan’, and all the ‘vain false gods of Hellas’,
with an acknowledgement of
your beauty which confesses
Some chief Beauty conquering you.
This may be taken to have been the average attitude, in the forties,
towards classical mythology. That twenty years before, at least in the
Shelley circle, it was far less grudging, we now have definite proof.
Not only was Shelley prepared to admit, with the liberal opinion of the
time, that ancient mythology ‘was a system of nature concealed under
the veil of allegory’, a system in which a thousand fanciful fables
contained a secret and mystic meaning’:[9] he was prepared to go a
considerable step farther, and claim that there was no essential
difference between ancient mythology and the theology of the
Christians, that both were interpretations, in more or less figurative
language, of the great mysteries of being, and indeed that the earlier
interpretation, precisely because it was more frankly figurative and
poetical than the later one, was better fitted to stimulate and to
allay the sense of wonder which ought to accompany a reverent and
high-souled man throughout his life-career.
In the earlier phase of Shelley’s thought, this identification of the
ancient and the modern faiths was derogatory to both. The letter which
he had written in 1812 for ihe edification of Lord Ellenborough
revelled in the contemplation of a time ‘when the Christian religion
shall have faded from the earth, when its memory like that of
Polytheism now shall remain, but remain only as the subject of ridicule
and wonder’. But as time went on, Shelley’s views became less purely
negative. Instead of ruling the adversaries back to back out of court,
he bethought himself of venturing a plea in favour of the older and
weaker one. It may have been in 1817 that he contemplated an ‘Essay in
favour of polytheism’.[10] He was then living on the fringe of a
charmed circle of amateur and adventurous Hellenists who could have
furthered the scheme. His great friend, Thomas Love Peacock, ‘Greeky
Peaky’, was a personal acquaintance of Thomas Taylor ‘the Platonist’,
alias ‘Pagan Taylor’. And Taylor’s translations and commentaries of
Plato had been favourites of Shelley in his college days. Something at
least of Taylor’s queer mixture of flaming enthusiasm and tortuous
ingenuity may be said to appear in the unexpected document we have now
to examine.
It is a little draft of an Essay, which occurs, in Mrs. Shelley’s
handwriting, as an insertion in her Journal for the Italian period. The
fragment—for it is no more—must be quoted in full.[11]
The necessity of a Belief in the
Heathen Mythology
to a Christian
If two facts are related not contradictory of equal probability & with
equal evidence, if we believe one we must believe the other.
1st. There is as good proof of the Heathen Mythology as of the
Christian Religion.
2ly. that they [do] not contradict one another.
Con[clusion]. If a man believes in one he must believe in both.
Examination of the proofs of the Xtian religion—the Bible & its
authors. The twelve stones that existed in the time of the writer prove
the miraculous passage of the river Jordan.[12] The immoveability of
the Island of Delos proves the accouchement of Latona[13] —the Bible of
the Greek religion consists in Homer, Hesiod & the Fragments of Orpheus
&c.—All that came afterwards to be considered apocryphal—Ovid =
Josephus—of each of these writers we may believe just what we cho[o]se.
To seek in these Poets for the creed & proofs of mythology which are as
follows—Examination of these—1st with regard to proof—2 in
contradiction or conformity to the Bible—various apparitions of God in
that Book [—] Jupiter considered by himself—his attributes—disposition
[—] acts—whether as God revealed himself as the Almighty to the
Patriarchs & as Jehovah to the Jews he did not reveal himself as
Jupiter to the Greeks—the possibility of various revelations—that he
revealed himself to Cyrus.[14]
The inferior deities—the sons of God & the Angels—the difficulty of
Jupiter’s children explained away—the imagination of the poets—of the
prophets—whether the circumstance of the sons of God living with
women[15] being related in one sentence makes it more probable than the
details of Greek—Various messages of the Angels—of the deities—Abraham,
Lot or Tobit. Raphael [—]Mercury to Priam[16] —Calypso & Ulysses—the
angel wd then play the better part of the two whereas he now plays the
worse. The ass of Balaam—Oracles—Prophets. The revelation of God as
Jupiter to the Greeks—-a more successful revelation than that as
Jehovah to the Jews—Power, wisdom, beauty, & obedience of the
Greeks—greater & of longer continuance—than those of the Jews.
Jehovah’s promises worse kept than Jupiter’s—the Jews or Prophets had
not a more consistent or decided notion concerning after life & the
Judgements of God than the Greeks [—] Angels disappear at one time in
the Bible & afterwards appear again. The revelation to the Greeks more
complete than to the Jews—prophesies of Christ by the heathens more
incontrovertible than those of the Jews. The coming of X. a
confirmation of both religions. The cessation of oracles a proof of
this. The Xtians better off than any but the Jews as blind as the
Heathens—Much more conformable to an idea of [the] goodness of God that
he should have revealed himself to the Greeks than that he left them in
ignorance. Vergil & Ovid not truth of the heathen Mythology, but the
interpretation of a heathen—as Milton’s Paradise Lost is the
interpretation of a Christian religion of the Bible. The interpretation
of the mythology of Vergil & the interpretation of the Bible by Milton
compared—whether one is more inconsistent than the other—In what they
are contradictory. Prometheus desmotes quoted by Paul[17] [—] all
religion false except that which is revealed—revelation depends upon a
certain degree of civilization—writing necessary—no oral tradition to
be a part of faith—the worship of the Sun no revelation—Having lost the
books [of] the Egyptians we have no knowledge of their peculiar
revelations. If the revelation of God to the Jews on Mt Sinai had been
more peculiar & impressive than some of those to the Greeks they wd not
immediately after have worshiped a calf—A latitude in revelation—How to
judge of prophets—the proof [of] the Jewish Prophets being prophets.
The only public revelation that Jehovah ever made of himself was on Mt
Sinai—Every other depended upon the testimony of a very few & usually
of a single individual—We will first therefore consider the revelation
of Mount Sinai. Taking the fact plainly it happened thus. The Jews were
told by a man whom they believed to have supernatural powers that they
were to prepare for that God wd reveal himself in three days on the
mountain at the sound of a trumpet. On the 3rd day there was a cloud &
lightning on the mountain & the voice of a trumpet extremely loud. The
people were ordered to stand round the foot of the mountain & not on
pain of death to infringe upon the bounds—The man in whom they confided
went up the mountain & came down again bringing them word
The draft unfortunately leaves off here, and we are unable to know for
certain whether this Shelleyan paradox, greatly daring, meant to
minimize the importance of the ‘only public revelation’ granted to the
chosen people. But we have enough to understand the general trend of
the argument. It did not actually intend to sap the foundations of
Scriptural authority. But it was bold enough to risk a little shaking
in order to prove that the Sacred Books of the Greeks and Romans did
not, after all, present us with a much more rickety structure. This was
a task of conciliation rather than destruction. And yet even this
conservative view of the Shelleys’ exegesis cannot—and will not—detract
from the value of the above document. Surely, this curious theory of
the equal ‘inspiration’ of Polytheism and the Jewish or Christian
religions, whether it was invented or simply espoused by Mrs. Shelley,
evinces in her—for the time being at least—a very considerable share of
that adventurous if somewhat uncritical alacrity of mind which carried
the poet through so many religious and political problems. It certainly
vindicates her, more completely perhaps than anything hitherto
published, against the strictures of those who knew her chiefly or
exclusively in later years, and could speak of her as a ‘most
conventional slave’, who ‘even affected the pious dodge’, and ‘was not
a suitable companion for the poet’.[18] Mrs. Shelley—at twenty-three
years of age—had not yet run the full ‘career of her humour’; and her
enthusiasm for classical mythology may well have, later on, gone the
way of her admiration for Spinoza, whom she read with Shelley that
winter (1820-1), as Medwin notes,[19] and ‘whose arguments she then
thought irrefutable—_tempora mutantur!_’
However that may be, the two little mythological dramas on _Proserpine_
and _Midas_ assume, in the light of that enthusiasm, a special
interest. They stand—or fall—both as a literary, and to a certain
extent as an intellectual effort. They are more than an attitude, and
not much less than an avowal. Not only do they claim our attention as
the single poetical work of any length which seems to have been
undertaken by Mrs. Shelley; they are a unique and touching monument of
that intimate co-operation which at times, especially in the early
years in Italy, could make the union of ‘the May’ and ‘the Elf’ almost
unreservedly delightful. It would undoubtedly be fatuous exaggeration
to ascribe a very high place in literature to these little Ovidian
fancies of Mrs. Shelley. The scenes, after all, are little better than
adaptations—fairly close adaptations—of the Latin poet’s well-known
tales.
Even _Proserpine_, though clearly the more successful of the two, both
more strongly knit as drama, and less uneven in style and
versification, cannot for a moment compare with the far more original
interpretations of Tennyson, Swinburne, or Meredith.[20] But it is
hardly fair to draw in the great names of the latter part of the
century. The parallel would be more illuminating—and the final award
passed on Mrs. Shelley’s attempt more favourable—if we were to think of
a contemporary production like ‘Barry Cornwall’s’ _Rape of Proserpine_,
which, being published in 1820, it is just possible that the Shelleys
should have known. B. W. Procter’s poem is also a dramatic ‘scene’,
written ‘in imitation of the mode originated by the Greek Tragic
Writers’. In fact those hallowed models seem to have left far fewer
traces in Barry Cornwall’s verse than the Alexandrian—or
pseudo-Alexandrian—tradition of meretricious graces and coquettish
fancies, which the eighteenth century had already run to death.[21]
And, more damnable still, the poetical essence of the legend, the
identification of Proserpine’s twofold existence with the grand
alternation of nature’s seasons, has been entirely neglected by the
author. Surely his work, though published, is quite as deservedly
obscure as Mrs. Shelley’s derelict manuscript. _Midas_ has the
privilege, if it be one, of not challenging any obvious comparison. The
subject, since Lyly’s and Dryden’s days, has hardly attracted the
attention of the poets. It was so eminently fit for the lighter kinds
of presentation that the agile bibliographer who aimed at completeness
would have to go through a fairly long list of masques,[22] comic
operas, or ‘burlettas’, all dealing with the ludicrous misfortunes of
the Phrygian king. But an examination of these would be sheer pedantry
in this place. Here again Mrs. Shelley has stuck to her Latin source as
closely as she could.[23] She has made a gallant attempt to connect the
two stories with which Midas has ever since Ovid’s days been
associated, and a distinct—indeed a too perceptible—effort to press out
a moral meaning in this, as she had easily extricated a cosmological
meaning in the other tale.
Perhaps we have said too much to introduce these two little
unpretending poetical dramas. They might indeed have been allowed to
speak for themselves. A new frame often makes a new face; and some of
the best known and most exquisite of Shelley’s lyrics, when restored to
the surroundings for which the poet intended them, needed no other
set-off to appeal to the reader with a fresh charm of quiet classical
grace and beauty. But the charm will operate all the more unfailingly,
if we remember that this clear classical mood was by no means such a
common element in the literary atmosphere of the times—not even a
permanent element in the authors’ lives. We have here none of the
feverish ecstasy that lifts _Prometheus_ and _Hellas_ far above the
ordinary range of philosophical or political poetry. But Shelley’s
encouragement, probably his guidance and supervision, have raised his
wife’s inspiration to a place considerably higher than that of
_Frankenstein_ or _Valperga_. With all their faults these pages reflect
some of that irradiation which Shelley cast around his own life—the
irradiation of a dream beauteous and generous, beauteous in its
theology (or its substitute for theology) and generous even in its
satire of human weaknesses.
Footnotes
[1] Essay on the Study of Literature, § 56.
[2] Blake, _Poetical Sketches_, 1783.
[3] _Modern Painters_, iii. 317
[4] _Sonnet_ ‘The world is too much with us’; cf. _The Excursion_, iv.
851-57.
[5] _The Piccolomini_, II, iv.
[6] At least as far as England is concerned. For France, cf. Canat, _a
renaissance de la Grèce antique_, Hachette, Paris, 1911.
[7] J. A, Symonds, _Studies of the Greek Poets_, ii, p. 258.
[8] As pointed out by Brunetière, _Évolution de la Poésie lyrique_,
ii, p. 147.
[9] _Edinb. Rev._, July 1808.
[10] Cf. our _Shelley’s Prose in the Bodleian MSS_., 1910, p. 124.
[11] From the ‘Boscombe’ MSS. Unpublished.
[12] Josh. iv. 8.—These notes are _not_ Shelley’s.
[13] _Theogn_. 5 foll.; Homer’s _Hymn to Apollo_, i. 25.
[14] Probably Xenophon, _Cyrop_. VIII. vii. 2.
[15] Gen. vi.
[16] _Iliad_, xxiv.
[17] Shelley may refer to the proverbial phrase ‘to kick against the
pricks’ (Acts xxvi. 14), which, however, is found in Pindar and
Euripides as well as in Aeschylus (_Prom._ 323).
[18] Trelawny’s letter, 3 April 1870; in Mr. H. Buxton Forman’s
edition, 1910, p. 229.
[19] I. e. ed. H. Buxton Forman, p. 253.
[20] _Demeter and Persephone_, 1889; _The Garden of Proserpine_, 1866;
_The Appeasement of Demeter_, 1888.
[21] To adduce an example—in what is probably not an easily accessible
book to-day: Proserpine, distributing her flowers, thus addresses one
of her nymphs:
For this lily,
Where can it hang but at Cyane’s breast!
And yet ’twill wither on so white a bed,
If flowers have sense for envy.
[22] There is one by poor Christopher Smart.
[23] Perhaps her somewhat wearying second act, on the effects of the
gold-transmuting gift, would have been shorter, if Ovid (_Metam._ xi.
108-30) had not himself gone into such details on the subject.
MYTHOLOGICAL DRAMAS.
Unless otherwise pointed out—by brackets, or in the notes—the text,
spelling, and punctuation of the MS. have been strictly adhered to.
PROSERPINE.
A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
CERES.
PROSERPINE.
INO, EUNOE Nymphs attendant upon Proserpine.
IRIS.
ARETHUSA, Naiad of a Spring.
Shades from Hell, among which Ascalaphus.
Scene; the plain of Enna, in Sicily.
PROSERPINE.
ACT I.
_Scene; a beautiful plain, shadowed on one side by an overhanging rock,
on the other a chesnut wood. Etna at a distance._
Enter Ceres, Proserpine, Ino and Eunoe.
PROSERPINA.
Dear Mother, leave me not! I love to rest
Under the shadow of that hanging cave
And listen to your tales. Your Proserpine
Entreats you stay; sit on this shady bank,
And as I twine a wreathe tell once again
The combat of the Titans and the Gods;
Or how the Python fell beneath the dart
Of dread Apollo; or of Daphne’s change,—
That coyest Grecian maid, whose pointed leaves
Now shade her lover’s brow. And I the while
Gathering the starry flowers of this fair plain
Will weave a chaplet, Mother, for thy hair.
But without thee, the plain I think is vacant,
Its[1] blossoms fade,—its tall fresh grasses droop,
Nodding their heads like dull things half asleep;—
Go not, dear Mother, from your Proserpine.
CERES.
My lovely child, it is high Jove’s command:—
The golden self-moved seats surround his throne,
The nectar is poured out by Ganymede,
And the ambrosia fills the golden baskets;
They drink, for Bacchus is already there,
But none will eat till I dispense the food.
I must away—dear Proserpine, farewel!—
Eunoe can tell thee how the giants fell;
Or dark-eyed Ino sing the saddest change
Of Syrinx or of Daphne, or the doom
Of impious Prometheus, and the boy
Of fair Pandora, Mother of mankind.
This only charge I leave thee and thy nymphs,—
Depart not from each other; be thou circled
By that fair guard, and then no earth-born Power
Would tempt my wrath, and steal thee from their sight[.]
But wandering alone, by feint or force,
You might be lost, and I might never know
Thy hapless fate. Farewel, sweet daughter mine,
Remember my commands.
PROSERPINA.
—Mother, farewel!
Climb the bright sky with rapid wings; and swift
As a beam shot from great Apollo’s bow
Rebounds from the calm mirror of the sea
Back to his quiver in the Sun, do thou
Return again to thy loved Proserpine.
(_Exit Ceres_.)
And now, dear Nymphs, while the hot sun is high
Darting his influence right upon the plain,
Let us all sit beneath the narrow shade
That noontide Etna casts.—And, Ino, sweet,
Come hither; and while idling thus we rest,
Repeat in verses sweet the tale which says
How great Prometheus from Apollo’s car
Stole heaven’s fire—a God-like gift for Man!
Or the more pleasing tale of Aphrodite;
How she arose from the salt Ocean’s foam,
And sailing in her pearly shell, arrived
On Cyprus sunny shore, where myrtles[2] bloomed
And sweetest flowers, to welcome Beauty’s Queen;
And ready harnessed on the golden sands
Stood milk-white doves linked to a sea-shell car,
With which she scaled the heavens, and took her seat
Among the admiring Gods.
EUNOE.
Proserpine’s tale
Is sweeter far than Ino’s sweetest aong.
PROSERPINA.
Ino, you knew erewhile a River-God,
Who loved you well and did you oft entice
To his transparent waves and flower-strewn banks.
He loved high poesy and wove sweet sounds,
And would sing to you as you sat reclined
On the fresh grass beside his shady cave,
From which clear waters bubbled, dancing forth,
And spreading freshness in the noontide air.
When you returned you would enchant our ears
With tales and songs which did entice the fauns,[3]
With Pan their King from their green haunts, to hear.
Tell me one now, for like the God himself,
Tender they were and fanciful, and wrapt
The hearer in sweet dreams of shady groves,
Blue skies, and clearest, pebble-paved streams.
INO.
I will repeat the tale which most I loved;
Which tells how lily-crowned Arethusa,
Your favourite Nymph, quitted her native Greece,
Flying the liquid God Alpheus, who followed,
Cleaving the desarts of the pathless deep,
And rose in Sicily, where now she flows
The clearest spring of Enna’s gifted plain.
(By Shelley)[4]
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows,
In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
From cloud, and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks
With her rainbow locks,
Streaming among the streams,—
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine,
Which slopes to the Western gleams:—
And gliding and springing,
She went, ever singing
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook;
And opened a chasm
In the rocks;—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It unsealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below:—
And the beard and the hair
Of the river God were
Seen through the torrent’s sweep
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph’s flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
Oh, save me! oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!
The loud ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer[,]
And under the water
The Earth’s white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam,
Behind her descended
Her billows unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:—
Like a gloomy stain
On the Emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,
As an eagle pursueing
A dove to its ruin,
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearled thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams,
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of coloured light,
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest’s[5] night:—
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword fish dark,
Under the Ocean foam,[6]
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts,
They passed to their Dorian Home.
And now from their fountains
In Enna’s mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted,
Grown single hearted
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill[,—]
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of asphodel,—
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;—
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky,
When they love, but live no more.
PROSERPINA.
Thanks, Ino dear, you have beguiled an hour
With poesy that might make pause to list
The nightingale in her sweet evening song.
But now no more of ease and idleness,
The sun stoops to the west, and Enna’s plain
Is overshadowed by the growing form
Of giant Etna:—Nymphs, let us arise,
And cull the sweetest flowers of the field,
And with swift fingers twine a blooming wreathe
For my dear Mother’s rich and waving hair.
EUNOE.
Violets blue and white anemonies
Bloom on the plain,—but I will climb the brow
Of that o’erhanging hill, to gather thence
That loveliest rose, it will adorn thy crown;
Ino, guard Proserpine till my return.
(_Exit_.)
INO.
How lovely is this plain!—Nor Grecian vale,
Nor bright Ausonia’s ilex bearing shores,
The myrtle bowers of Aphrodite’s sweet isle,
Or Naxos burthened with the luscious vine,
Can boast such fertile or such verdant fields
As these, which young Spring sprinkles with her stars;—
Nor Crete which boasts fair Amalthea’s horn
Can be compared with the bright golden[7] fields
Of Ceres, Queen of plenteous Sicily.
PROSERPINA.
Sweet Ino, well I know the love you bear
My dearest Mother prompts your partial voice,
And that love makes you doubly dear to me.
But you are idling,—look[,] my lap is full
Of sweetest flowers;—haste to gather more,
That before sunset we may make our crown.
Last night as we strayed through that glade, methought
The wind that swept my cheek bore on its wings
The scent of fragrant violets, hid
Beneath the straggling underwood; Haste, sweet,
To gather them; fear not—I will not stray.
INO.
Nor fear that I shall loiter in my task.
(_Exit_.)
(By Shelley.)
PROSERPINA.
_(sings as she gathers her flowers.)_
Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom
Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,
Leaf, and blade, and bud, and blossom,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child Proserpine.
If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers
Till they grow in scent and hue
Fairest children of the hours[,]
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child Proserpine.
(she looks around.)
My nymphs have left me, neglecting the commands
Of my dear Mother. Where can they have strayed?
Her caution makes me fear to be alone;—
I’ll pass that yawning cave and seek the spring
Of Arethuse, where water-lilies bloom
Perhaps the nymph now wakes tending her waves,
She loves me well and oft desires my stay,—
The lilies shall adorn my mother’s crown.
(_Exit_.)
(After a pause enter Eunoe.)
EUNOE.
I’ve won my prize! look at this fragrant rose!
But where is Proserpine? Ino has strayed
Too far I fear, and she will be fatigued,
As I am now, by my long toilsome search.
Enter Ino.
Oh! you here, Wanderer! Where is Proserpine?
INO.
My lap’s heaped up with sweets; dear Proserpine,
You will not chide me now for idleness;—
Look here are all the treasures of the field,—
First these fresh violets, which crouched beneath
A mossy rock, playing at hide and seek
With both the sight and sense through the high fern;
Star-eyed narcissi & the drooping bells
Of hyacinths; and purple polianthus,
Delightful flowers are these; but where is she,
The loveliest of them all, our Mistress dear?
EUNOE.
I know not, even now I left her here,
Guarded by you, oh Ino, while I climbed
Up yonder steep for this most worthless rose:—
Know you not where she is? Did you forget
Ceres’ behest, and thus forsake her child?
INO.
Chide not, unkind Eunoe, I but went
Down that dark glade, where underneath the shade
Of those high trees the sweetest violets grow,—
I went at her command. Alas! Alas!
My heart sinks down; I dread she may be lost;—
Eunoe, climb the hill, search that ravine,
Whose close, dark sides may hide her from our view:—
Oh, dearest, haste! Is that her snow-white robe?
EUNOE.
No;—’tis a faun[8] beside its sleeping Mother,
Browsing the grass;—what will thy Mother say,
Dear Proserpine, what will bright Ceres feel,
If her return be welcomed not by thee?
INO.
These are wild thoughts,—& we are wrong to fear
That any ill can touch the child of heaven;
She is not lost,—trust me, she has but strayed
Up some steep mountain path, or in yon dell,
Or to the rock where yellow wall-flowers grow,
Scaling with venturous step the narrow path
Which the goats fear to tread;—she will return
And mock our fears.
EUNOE.
The sun now dips his beams
In the bright sea; Ceres descends at eve
From Jove’s high conclave; if her much-loved child
Should meet her not in yonder golden field,
Where to the evening wind the ripe grain waves
Its yellow head, how will her heart misgive.
Let us adjure the Naiad of yon brook[,]
She may perchance have seen our Proserpine,
And tell us to what distant field she’s strayed:—
Wait thou, dear Ino, here, while I repair
To the tree-shaded source of her swift stream.
(_Exit_ Eunoe.)
INO.
Why does my heart misgive? & scalding tears,
That should but mourn, now prophecy her loss?
Oh, Proserpine! Where’er your luckless fate
Has hurried you,—to wastes of desart sand,
Or black Cymmerian cave, or dread Hell,
Yet Ino still will follow! Look where Eunoe
Comes, with down cast eyes and faltering steps,
I fear the worst;—
Re-enter Eunoe.
Has she not then been seen?
EUNOE.
Alas, all hope is vanished! Hymera says
She slept the livelong day while the hot beams
Of Phœbus drank her waves;—nor did she wake
Until her reed-crowned head was wet with dew;—
If she had passed her grot she slept the while.
INO.
Alas! Alas! I see the golden car,
And hear the flapping of the dragons wings,
Ceres descends to Earth. I dare not stay,
I dare not meet the sorrow of her look[,]
The angry glance of her severest eyes.
EUNOE.
Quick up the mountain! I will search the dell,
She must return, or I will never more.
(_Exit_.)
INO.
And yet I will not fly, though I fear much
Her angry frown and just reproach, yet shame
Shall quell this childish fear, all hope of safety
For her lost child rests but in her high power,
And yet I tremble as I see her come.
Enter Ceres.
CERES.
Where is my daughter? have I aught to dread?
Where does she stray? Ino, you answer not;—
She was aye wont to meet me in yon field,—
Your looks bode ill;—I fear my child is lost.
INO.
Eunoe now seeks her track among the woods;
Fear not, great Ceres, she has only strayed.
CERES.
Alas! My boding heart,—I dread the worst.
Oh, careless nymphs! oh, heedless Proserpine!
And did you leave her wandering by herself?
She is immortal,—yet unusual fear
Runs through my veins. Let all the woods be sought,
Let every dryad, every gamesome faun[9]
Tell where they last beheld her snowy feet
Tread the soft, mossy paths of the wild wood.
But that I see the base of Etna firm
I well might fear that she had fallen a prey
To Earth-born Typheus, who might have arisen
And seized her as the fairest child of heaven,
That in his dreary caverns she lies bound;
It is not so: all is as safe and calm
As when I left my child. Oh, fatal day!
Eunoe does not return: in vain she seeks
Through the black woods and down the darksome glades,
And night is hiding all things from our view.
I will away, and on the highest top
Of snowy Etna, kindle two clear flames.
Night shall not hide her from my anxious search,
No moment will I rest, or sleep, or pause
Till she returns, until I clasp again
My only loved one, my lost Proserpine.
END OF ACT FIRST.
Footnotes
[1] There is an apostrophe _on_ the s.
[2] MS. _mytles._
[3] MS. _fawns_
[4] Inserted in a later hand, here as p. 18.
[5] The intended place of the apostrophe is not clear.
[6] MS. _Ocean’ foam_ as if a genitive was meant; but cf. _Ocean foam_
in the Song of Apollo (_Midas_).
[7] MS. _the bright gold fields._
[8] MS. _fawn._
[9] MS. _fawn._