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All thro' the spring-tide, thro' the indolent summer, 690 (If only this fair isle wer' ours) Here might we dwell, forgetful of the weedy caves Beneath the ocean's blue billows. Enter Demeter. Ch. Hail, mighty Mother!—Welcome, great Demeter!— (1) This day bring joy to thee, and peace to man!{73} Dem. I welcome you, my loving true allies, And thank you, who for me your gentle tempers Have stiffen'd in rebellion, and so long Harass'd the foe. Here on this field of flowers I have bid you share my victory or defeat. 700 For Hermes hath this day command from Zeus To lead our lost Persephone from Hell, Hither whence she was stolen.—And yet, alas! Tho' Zeus is won, some secret power thwarts me; All is not won: a cloud is o'er my spirit. Wherefore not yet I boast, nor will rejoice Till mine eyes see her, and my arms enfold her, And breast to breast we meet in fond embrace. Ch. Well hast thou fought, great goddess, so to wrest Zeus from his word. We thank thee, call'd to share 710 Thy triumph, and rejoice. Yet O, we pray, Make thou this day a day of peace for man! Even if Persephone be not restored, Whether Aidoneus hold her or release, Relent thou.—Stay thine anger, mighty goddess; Nor with thy hateful famine slay mankind. Dem. Say not that word 'relent' lest Hades hear! Ch. Consider rather if mankind should hear. Dem. Do ye love man? Ch. We have seen his sorrows, Lady … Dem. And what can ye have seen that I know not?— His sorrow?—Ah my sorrow!—and ye bid 721 Me to relent; whose deeds of fond compassion Have in this year of agony built up A story for all time that shall go wand'ring Further than I have wander'd;—whereto all ears Shall hearken ever, as ye will hearken now. Ch. Happy are we, who first shall hear the tale From thine own lips, and tell it to the sea. Dem. Attend then while I tell.— —Parting from Hermes hence, anger'd at heart, 730{74} Self-exiled from the heav'ns, forgone, alone, My anguish fasten'd on me, as I went Wandering an alien in the haunts of men. To screen my woe I put my godhead off, Taking the likeness of a worthy dame, A woman of the people well in years; Till going unobserv'd, it irked me soon To be unoccupy'd save by my grief, While men might find distraction for their sorrows In useful toil. Then, of my pity rather 740 Than hope to find their simple cure my own, I took resolve to share and serve their needs, And be as one of them. Ch. Ah, mighty goddess, Coudst thou so put thy dignities away, And suffer the familiar brunt of men? Dem. In all things even as they.—And sitting down One evening at Eleusis, by the well Under an olive-tree, likening myself Outwardly to some kindly-hearted matron, Whose wisdom and experience are of worth 750 Either where childhood clamorously speaks The engrossing charge of Aphrodite's gifts, Or merry maidens in wide-echoing halls Want sober governance;—to me, as there I sat, the daughters of King Keleos came, Tall noble damsels, as kings' daughters are, And, marking me a stranger, they drew from me A tale told so engagingly, that they Grew fain to find employment for my skill; —As men devise in mutual recompense, 760 Hoping the main advantage for themselves;— And so they bad me follow, and I enter'd The palace of King Keleos, and received There on my knees the youngest of the house, A babe, to nurse him as a mother would:{75} And in that menial service I was proud To outrun duty and trust: and there I liv'd Disguised among the maidens many months. Ch. Often as have our guesses aim'd, dear Lady, Where thou didst hide thyself, oft as we wonder'd 770 What chosen work was thine, none ever thought That thou didst deign to tend a mortal babe. Dem. What life I led shall be for men to tell. But for this babe, the nursling of my sorrow, Whose peevish cry was my consoling care, How much I came to love him ye shall hear. Ch. What was he named, Lady? Dem. Demophoön. Yea, ye shall hear how much I came to love him. For in his small epitome I read The trouble of mankind; in him I saw 780 The hero's helplessness, the countless perils In ambush of life's promise, the desire Blind and instinctive, and the will perverse. His petty needs were man's necessities; In him I nurst all mortal natur', embrac'd With whole affection to my breast, and lull'd Wailing humanity upon my knee. Ch. We see thou wilt not now destroy mankind. Dem. What I coud do to save man was my thought. And, since my love was center'd in the boy, 790 My thought was first for him, to rescue him; That, thro' my providence, he ne'er should know Suffering, nor disease, nor fear of death. Therefore I fed him on immortal food, And should have gain'd my wish, so well he throve, But by ill-chance it hapt, once, as I held him Bathed in the fire at midnight (as was my wont)— His mother stole upon us, and ascare At the strange sight, screaming in loud dismay Compel'd me to unmask, and leave for ever 800{76} The halls of Keleos, and my work undone. Ch. 'Twas pity that she came!—Didst thou not grieve to lose The small Demophoön?—Coudst thou not save him? Dem. I had been blinded. Think ye for yourselves … What vantage were it to mankind at large That one should be immortal—if all beside Must die and suffer misery as before? Ch. Nay, truly. And great envy borne to one So favour'd might have more embitter'd all. Dem. I had been foolish. My sojourn with men 810 Had warpt my mind with mortal tenderness. So, questioning myself what real gift I might bestow on man to help his state, I saw that sorrow was his life-companion, To be embrac't bravely, not weakly shun'd: That as by toil man winneth happiness, Thro' tribulation he must come to peace. How to make sorrow his friend then—this my task. Here was a mystery … and how persuade This thorny truth? … Ye do not hearken me. 820 Ch. Yea, honour'd goddess, yea, we hearken still: Stint not thy tale. Dem. Ye might not understand. My tale to you must be a tale of deeds— How first I bade King Keleos build for me A temple in Eleusis, and ordain'd My worship, and the mysteries of my thought; Where in the sorrow that I underwent Man's state is pattern'd; and in picture shewn The way of his salvation. … Now with me —Here is a matter grateful to your ears—830 Your lov'd Persephone hath equal honour, And in the spring her festival of flowers: And if she should return … [Listening. Ah! hark! what hear I?{77} Ch. We hear no sound. Dem. Hush ye! Hermes: he comes. Ch. What hearest thou? Dem. Hermes; and not alone. She is there. 'Tis she: I have won. Ch. Where? where? Dem. (aside). Ah! can it be that out of sorrow's night, From tears, from yearning pain, from long despair, Into joy's sunlight I shall come again?— Aside! stand ye aside! 840 Enter Hermes leading Persephone. Her. Mighty Demeter, lo! I execute The will of Zeus and here restore thy daughter. Dem. I have won. Per. Sweet Mother, thy embrace is as the welcome Of all the earth, thy kiss the breath of life. Dem. Ah! but to me, Cora! Thy voice again … My tongue is trammel'd with excess of joy. Per. Arise, my nymphs, my Oceanides! My Nereids all, arise! and welcome me! Put off your strange solemnity! arise! 850 Ch. Welcome! all welcome, fair Persephone! (1) We came to welcome thee, but fell abash'd Seeing thy purple robe and crystal crown. Per. Arise and serve my pleasure as of yore. Dem. And thou too doff thy strange solemnity, That all may see thee as thou art, my Cora, Restor'd and ever mine. Put off thy crown! Per. Awhile! dear Mother—what thou say'st is true; I am restor'd to thee, and evermore Shall be restor'd. Yet am I none the less 860 Evermore Queen of Hades: and 'tis meet I wear the crown, the symbol of my reign. Dem. What words are these, my Cora! Evermore Restor'd to me thou say'st … 'tis well—but then{78} Evermore Queen of Hades … what is this? I had a dark foreboding till I saw thee: Alas, alas! it lives again: destroy it! Solve me this riddle quickly, if thou mayest. Per. Let Hermes speak, nor fear thou. All is well. Her. Divine Demeter, thou hast won thy will, 870 And the command of Zeus have I obey'd. Thy daughter is restor'd, and evermore Shall be restor'd to thee as on this day. But Hades holding to his bride, the Fates Were kind also to him, that she should be His queen in Hades as thy child on earth. Yearly, as spring-tide cometh, she is thine While flowers bloom and all the land is gay; But when thy corn is gather'd, and the fields Are bare, and earth withdraws her budding life 880 From the sharp bite of winter's angry fang, Yearly will she return and hold her throne With great Aidoneus and the living dead: And she hath eaten with him of such fruit As holds her his true bride for evermore. Dem. Alas! alas! Per. Rejoice, dear Mother. Let not vain lament Trouble our joy this day, nor idle tears. Dem. Alas! from my own deed my trouble comes: He gave thee of the fruit which I had curs'd: 890 I made the poison that enchanted thee. Per. Repent not in thy triumph, but rejoice, Who hast thy will in all, as I have mine. Dem. I have but half my will, how hast thou more? Per. It was my childish fancy (thou rememb'rest), I would be goddess of the flowers: I thought That men should innocently honour me With bloodless sacrifice and spring-tide joy. Now Fate, that look'd contrary, hath fulfill'd My project with mysterious efficacy: 900{79} And as a plant that yearly dieth down When summer is o'er, and hideth in the earth, Nor showeth promise in its wither'd leaves That it shall reawaken and put forth Its blossoms any more to deck the spring; So I, the mutual symbol of
