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.

            Pros. 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 blossoms fade,—its tall fresh grasses droop,  Nodding their heads like dull things half asleep;—  Go not, dear Mother, from your Proserpine.

          Cer. 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.

           Pros. —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 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.

           Eun. Proserpine’s tale

 Is sweeter far than Ino’s sweetest aong.

        Pros. 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,  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)

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 night:— Outspeeding the shark,

And the sword fish dark,

Under the Ocean foam,

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. 

          Pros. 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 fields  Of Ceres, Queen of plenteous Sicily.

          Pros. 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.)

           Pros. (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.)

             Eun. 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?

             Eun. 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?

             Eun. No;—’tis a faun 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.

            Eun. 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?

              Eun. Alas, all hope is vanished! Hymera says

 She slept the livelong day while the hot beams

 Of Phoebus 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.

          Eun. 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.

             Cer. 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.

             Cer. 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  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.

 

ACT II

 

          Scene.

 The Plain of Enna as before.  Enter Ino & Eunoe.

             Eun. How weary am I! and the hot sun flushes

 My cheeks that else were white with fear and grief[.]

 E’er since that fatal day, dear sister nymph,

 On which we lost our lovely Proserpine,

 I have but wept and watched the livelong night  And all the day have wandered through the woods[.]

             Ino. How all is changed since that unhappy eve!

 Ceres forever weeps, seeking her child,

 And in her rage has struck the land with blight;

 Trinacria mourns with her;—its fertile fields

 Are dry and barren, and all little brooks

 Struggling scarce creep within their altered banks;

 The flowers that erst were wont with bended heads,

To gaze within the clear and glassy wave,

Have died, unwatered by the failing stream.—

And yet their hue but mocks the deeper grief

Which is the fountain of these bitter tears.

But who is this, that with such eager looks

           Hastens this way?—

          Eun. ’Tis fairest Arethuse,  A stranger naiad, yet you know her well.

            Ino. My eyes were blind with tears.

           Enter Arethusa.

           Dear Arethuse,

 Methinks I read glad tidings in your eyes,  Your smiles are the swift messengers that bear  A tale of coming joy, which we, alas!  Can answer but with tears, unless you bring  To our grief solace, Hope to our Despair.

 Have you found Proserpine? or know you where  The loved nymph wanders, hidden from our search?

          Areth. Where is corn-crowned Ceres? I have hastened  To ease her anxious heart.

           Eun. Oh! dearest Naiad,

 Herald of joy! Now will great Ceres bless  Thy welcome coming & more welcome tale.

             Ino. Since that unhappy day when Ceres lost

 Her much-loved child, she wanders through the isle;

 Dark blight is showered from her looks of sorrow;—  And where tall corn and all seed-bearing grass  Rose from beneath her step, they wither now

             Fading under the frown of her bent brows:

 The springs decrease;—the fields whose delicate green Was late her chief delight, now please alone,

Because they, withered, seem to share her grief.

            Areth. Unhappy Goddess! how I pity thee!

             Ino. At night upon high Etna’s topmost peak

 She lights two flames, that shining through the isle

 Leave dark no wood, or cave, or mountain path,  Their sunlike splendour makes the moon-beams dim,  And the bright stars are lost within their day.

 She’s in yon field,—she comes towards this plain,

 Her loosened hair has fallen on her neck,

 Uncircled by the coronal of grain:—  Her cheeks are wan,—her step is faint & slow.

           Enter Ceres.

          Cer. I faint with weariness: a dreadful thirst  Possesses me! Must I give up the search?  Oh! never, dearest Proserpine, until  I once more clasp thee in my vacant arms!

 Help me, dear Arethuse! fill some deep shell  With the clear waters of thine ice-cold spring,  And bring it me;—I faint with heat and thirst.

             Areth. My words are better than my freshest waves[:]

            I saw your Proserpine—

           Cer. Arethusa, where?

 Tell me! my heart beats quick, & hope and fear

 Cause my weak limbs to fail me.—

           Areth. Sit, Goddess,

Upon this mossy bank, beneath the shade

Of this tall rock, and I will tell my tale.

The day you lost your child, I left my source.

With my Alpheus I had wandered down

 The sloping shore into the sunbright sea;

 And at the coast we paused, watching the waves

 Of our mixed waters dance into the main:—

 When suddenly I heard the thundering tread  Of iron hoofed steeds trampling the ground,  And a faint shriek that made my blood run cold.

 I saw the King of Hell in his black car,

 And in his arms he bore your fairest child,

 Fair as the moon encircled by the night,—  But that she strove, and cast her arms aloft,

 And cried, “My Mother!”—When she saw me near

 She would have sprung from his detested arms,

 And with a tone of deepest grief, she cried,

 “Oh, Arethuse!” I hastened at her call—  But Pluto when he saw that aid was nigh,

 Struck furiously the green earth with his spear,

          Which yawned,—and down the deep Tartarian gulph  His black car rolled—the green earth closed above.

           Cer. (starting up)

 Is this thy doom, great Jove? & shall Hell’s king  Quitting dark Tartarus, spread grief and tears  Among the dwellers of your bright abodes?

 Then let him seize the earth itself, the stars,—  And all your wide dominion be his prey!—  Your sister calls upon your love, great King!  As you are God I do demand your help!—

 Restore my child, or let all heaven sink,

And the fair world be chaos once again!

             Ino. Look[!] in the East that loveliest bow is formed[;]

 Heaven’s single-arched bridge, it touches now

 The Earth, and ’mid the pathless wastes of heaven  It paves a way for Jove’s fair Messenger;—  Iris descends, and towards this field she comes.

          Areth. Sovereign of Harvests, ’tis the Messenger  That will bring joy to thee. Thine eyes light up  With sparkling hope, thy cheeks are pale with dread.

           Enter Iris.

             Cer. Speak, heavenly Iris! let thy words be poured

 Into my drooping soul, like dews of eve

 On a too long parched field.—Where is my Proserpine?

          Iris. Sister of Heaven, as by Joves throne I stood  The voice of thy deep prayer arose,—it filled  The heavenly courts with sorrow and dismay:

 The Thunderer frowned, & heaven shook with dread

 I bear his will to thee, ’tis fixed by fate,

 Nor prayer nor murmur e’er can alter it.

 If Proserpine while she has lived in hell

 Has not polluted by Tartarian food

 Her heavenly essence, then she may return,  And wander without fear on Enna’s plain,  Or take her seat among the Gods above.

 If she has touched the fruits of Erebus,

 She never may return to upper air,

But doomed to dwell amidst the shades of death, The wife of Pluto and the Queen of Hell.

Cer. Joy treads upon the sluggish heels of care!

The child of heaven disdains Tartarian food. Pluto[,] give up thy prey! restore my child!

              Iris. Soon she will see again the sun of Heaven,

 By gloomy shapes, inhabitants of Hell,

 Attended, and again behold the field

 Of Enna, the fair flowers & the streams,

 Her late delight,—& more than all, her Mother.

              Ino. Our much-loved, long-lost Mistress, do you come?

              And shall once more your nymphs attend your steps?

 Will you again irradiate this isle—

 That drooped when you were lost? & once again  Trinacria smile beneath your Mother’s eye?

          (Ceres and her companions are ranged on one side in eager

 expectation; from, the cave on the other, enter Proserpine,  attended by various dark & gloomy shapes bearing  torches; among which Ascalaphus. Ceres & Proserpine  embrace;—her nymphs surround her.)

          Cer. Welcome, dear Proserpine! Welcome to light,  To this green earth and to your Mother’s arms.

 You are too beautiful for Pluto’s Queen;

 In the dark Stygian air your blooming cheeks  Have lost their roseate tint, and your bright form  Has faded in that night unfit for thee.

          Pros. Then I again behold thee, Mother dear:—  Again I tread the flowery plain of Enna,

 And clasp thee, Arethuse, & you, my nymphs;

I have escaped from hateful Tartarus,

The abode of furies and all loathed shapes

That thronged around me, making hell more black.

Oh! I could worship thee, light giving Sun,

 Who spreadest warmth and radiance o’er the world.

 Look at the branches of those chesnut trees,  That wave to the soft breezes, while their stems

             Are tinged with red by the sun’s slanting rays.

 And the soft clouds that float ’twixt earth and sky.

 How sweet are all these sights! There all is night!  No God like that (pointing to the sun)  smiles on the Elysian plains,

 The air [is] windless, and all shapes are still.

          Iris. And must I interpose in this deep joy,  And sternly cloud your hopes? Oh! answer me,  Art thou still, Proserpine, a child of light?

 Or hast thou dimmed thy attributes of Heaven  By such Tartarian food as must for ever

 Condemn thee to be Queen of Hell & Night?

          Pros. No, Iris, no,—I still am pure as thee:  Offspring of light and air, I have no stain  Of Hell. I am for ever thine, oh, Mother!

           Cer. (to the shades from Hell)

 Begone, foul visitants to upper air!

 Back to your dens! nor stain the sunny earth

 By shadows thrown from forms so foul—Crouch in!  Proserpine, child of light, is not your Queen!

           (to the nymphs)

Quick bring my car,—we will ascend to heaven,

Deserting Earth, till by decree of Jove, Eternal laws shall bind the King of Hell To leave in peace the offspring of the sky.

             Ascal. Stay, Ceres! By the dread decree of Jove

             Your child is doomed to be eternal Queen

 Of Tartarus,—nor may she dare ascend

 The sunbright regions of Olympian Jove,

 Or tread the green Earth ’mid attendant nymphs.

 Proserpine, call to mind your walk last eve,

 When as you wandered in Elysian groves,

 Through bowers for ever green, and mossy walks,

 Where flowers never die, nor wind disturbs

 The sacred calm, whose silence soothes the dead,

 Nor interposing clouds, with dun wings, dim

 Its mild and silver light, you plucked its fruit,  You ate of a pomegranate’s seeds—

           Cer. Be silent,

 Prophet of evil, hateful to the Gods!

 Sweet Proserpine, my child, look upon me.

 You shrink; your trembling form & pallid cheeks

 Would make his words seem true which are most false[.]

 Thou didst not taste the food of Erebus;—  Offspring of Gods art thou,—nor Hell, nor Jove

 Shall tear thee from thy Mother’s clasping arms.

          Pros. If fate decrees, can we resist? farewel!  Oh! Mother, dearer to your child than light,

          Than all the forms of this sweet earth & sky, Though dear are these, and dear are my poor nymphs, Whom I must leave;—oh! can immortals weep? And can a Goddess die as mortals do, Or live & reign where it is death to be?  Ino, dear Arethuse, again you lose

 Your hapless Proserpine, lost to herself  When she quits you for gloomy Tartarus.

             Cer. Is there no help, great Jove? If she depart

 I will descend with her—the Earth shall lose

 Its proud fertility, and Erebus

 Shall bear my gifts throughout th’ unchanging year.  Valued till now by thee, tyrant of Gods!

 My harvests ripening by Tartarian fires

 Shall feed the dead with Heaven’s ambrosial food.

 Wilt thou not then repent, brother unkind,  Viewing the barren earth with vain regret,  Thou didst not shew more mercy to my child?

              Ino. We will all leave the light and go with thee,

 In Hell thou shalt be girt by Heaven-born nymphs,

 Elysium shall be Enna,—thou’lt not mourn

 Thy natal plain, which will have lost its worth  Having lost thee, its nursling and its Queen.

              Areth. I will sink down with thee;—my lily crown

             Shall bloom in Erebus, portentous loss

 To Earth, which by degrees will fade & fall

 In envy of our happier lot in Hell;—

 And the bright sun and the fresh winds of heaven  Shall light its depths and fan its stagnant air. (They cling round Proserpine; the Shades of Hell seperate and stand between them.)

             Ascal. Depart! She is our Queen! Ye may not come!

 Hark to Jove’s thunder! shrink away in fear

 From unknown forms, whose tyranny ye’ll feel  In groans and tears if ye insult their power.

          Iris. Behold Jove’s balance hung in upper sky;  There are ye weighed,—to that ye must submit.

             Cer. Oh! Jove, have mercy on a Mother’s prayer!

 Shall it be nought to be akin to thee?  And shall thy sister, Queen of fertile Earth,  Derided be by these foul shapes of Hell?

 Look at the scales, they’re poized with equal weights!

 What can this mean? Leave me not[,] Proserpine[,]  Cling to thy Mother’s side! He shall not dare  Divide the sucker from the parent stem.

           (embraces her)

          Ascal. He is almighty! who shall set the bounds  To his high will? let him decide our plea!  Fate is with us, & Proserpine is ours!

          (He endeavours to part Ceres & Proserpine, the nymphs  prevent him.)

          Cer. Peace, ominous bird of Hell & Night! Depart!  Nor with thy skriech disturb a Mother’s grief,  Avaunt! It is to Jove we pray, not thee.

             Iris. Thy fate, sweet Proserpine, is sealed by Jove,

 When Enna is starred by flowers, and the sun

Shoots his hot rays strait on the gladsome land,

When Summer reigns, then thou shalt live on Earth,  And tread these plains, or sporting with your nymphs,  Or at your Mother’s side, in peaceful joy.

 But when hard frost congeals the bare, black ground,

 The trees have lost their leaves, & painted birds

 Wailing for food sail through the piercing air;

 Then you descend to deepest night and reign

 Great Queen of Tartarus, ’mid shadows dire,

 Offspring of Hell,—or in the silent groves

 Of, fair Elysium through which Lethe runs,

 The sleepy river; where the windless air

 Is never struck by flight or song of bird,—

             But all is calm and clear, bestowing rest,

 After the toil of life, to wretched men,  Whom thus the Gods reward for sufferings  Gods cannot know; a throng of empty shades!

 The endless circle of the year will bring

 Joy in its turn, and seperation sad;

 Six months to light and Earth,—six months to Hell.

          Pros. Dear Mother, let me kiss that tear which steals  Down your pale cheek altered by care and grief.  This is not misery; ’tis but a slight change  Prom our late happy lot. Six months with thee,  Each moment freighted with an age of love:  And the six short months in saddest Tartarus  Shall pass in dreams of swift returning joy.

 Six months together we shall dwell on earth,  Six months in dreams we shall companions be,  Jove’s doom is void; we are forever joined.

Cer. Oh, fairest child! sweet summer visitor!

Thy looks cheer me, so shall they cheer this land

 Which I will fly, thou gone. Nor seed of grass,

 Or corn shall grow, thou absent from the earth;  But all shall lie beneath in hateful night

          Until at thy return, the fresh green springs,  The fields are covered o’er with summer plants.

 And when thou goest the heavy grain will droop  And die under my frown, scattering the seeds,  That will not reappear till your return.

 Farewel, sweet child, Queen of the nether world,  There shine as chaste Diana’s silver car  Islanded in the deep circumfluous night.

 Giver of fruits! for such thou shalt be styled,

 Sweet Prophetess of Summer, coming forth  From the slant shadow of the wintry earth,  In thy car drawn by snowy-breasted swallows!  Another kiss, & then again farewel!

 Winter in losing thee has lost its all,

 And will be doubly bare, & hoar, & drear,

 Its bleak winds whistling o’er the cold pinched ground  Which neither flower or grass will decorate.

 And as my tears fall first, so shall the trees

 Shed their changed leaves upon your six months tomb:  The clouded air will hide from Phoebus’ eye

 The dreadful change your absence operates.  Thus has black Pluto changed the reign of Jove,  He seizes half the Earth when he takes thee.

THE END

 

 

 

           

MIDAS.

ACT I.

 

  Scene; a rural spot; on one side, a bare Hill, on the other an Ilex wood; a stream with reeds on its banks.

  The Curtain rises and discovers Tmolus seated on a throne of turf, on his right hand Apollo with his lyre, attended by the Muses; on the left, Pan, fauns, &c.

            Enter Midas and Zopyrion.

             Midas. The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn

 And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora  Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds,  Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep.

 She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair,

 Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze[,]

 Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin;

 The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold,  The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock  Halloos most loudly to his distant mates.

 But who are these we see? these are not men,  Divine of form & sple[n]didly arrayed,

             They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan,

 Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns?  And who is he whose crown of gold & harp  Are attributes of high Apollo?

           Zopyr. Best

 Your majesty retire; we may offend.

          Midas. Aye, and at the base thought the coward blood  Deserts your trembling lips; but follow me.

 Oh Gods! for such your bearing is, & sure

 No mortal ever yet possessed the gold

 That glitters on your silken robes; may one,

 Who, though a king, can boast of no descent

 More noble than Deucalion’s stone-formed men[,]

May I demand the cause for which you deign

To print upon this worthless Phrygian earth

 The vestige of your gold-inwoven sandals,

 Or why that old white-headed man sits there

 Upon that grassy throne, & looks as he

 Were stationed umpire to some weighty cause[?]

          Tmolus. God Pan with his blithe pipe which the Fauns love

 Has challenged Phoebus of the golden lyre[,]  Saying his Syrinx can give sweeter notes  Than the stringed instrument Apollo boasts.  I judge between the parties. Welcome, King,

          I am old Tmolus, God of that bare Hill,  You may remain and hear th’ Immortals sing.

             Mid. [aside] My judgement is made up before I hear;

 Pan is my guardian God, old-horned Pan,  The Phrygian’s God who watches o’er our flocks;  No harmony can equal his blithe pipe.

           (Shelley.)

           Apollo (sings).

             The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,

 Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries,

 From the broad moonlight of the sky,

 Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes

 Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn,  Tells them that dreams & that the moon is gone.

              Then I arise, and climbing Heaven’s blue dome,

 I walk over the mountains & the waves,

 Leaving my robe upon the Ocean foam,—

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves

Are filled with my bright presence & the air  Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.

              The sunbeams are my shafts with which I kill

 Deceit, that loves the night & fears the day;

 All men who do, or even imagine ill

 Fly me, and from the glory of my ray

 Good minds and open actions take new might

 Until diminished by the reign of night.

 

             I feed the clouds, the rainbows & the flowers

 With their etherial colours; the moon’s globe

 And the pure stars in their eternal bowers

 Are cinctured with my power as with a robe;

 Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine  Are portions of one power, which is mine.

             I stand at noon upon the peak of heaven,

 Then with unwilling steps I wander down

 Into the clouds of the Atlantic even—  For grief that I depart they weep & frown [;]

 What look is more delightful than the smile

 With which I soothe them from the western isle [?] 

          I am the eye with which the Universe  Beholds itself & knows it is divine.

 All harmony of instrument or verse,

 All prophecy, all medecine is mine;  All light of art or nature;—to my song

Victory and praise, in its own right, belong.

           (Shelley.)

           Pan (sings).

            From the forests and highlands

 We come, we come;

 From the river-girt islands

 W[h]ere loud waves are dumb,  Listening my sweet pipings;

            The wind in the reeds & the rushes,

 The bees on the bells of thyme,

 The birds on the myrtle bushes[,]

 The cicale above in the lime[,]

 And the lizards below in the grass,  Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was  Listening my sweet pipings.

          Liquid Peneus was flowing,  And all dark Tempe lay

 In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing  The light of the dying day  Speeded by my sweet pipings.

 The Sileni, & Sylvans, & Fauns

 And the nymphs of the woods & the waves

 To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

 And the brink of the dewy caves[,]

 And all that did then attend & follow  Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo!  With envy of my sweet pipings.

            I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the daedal Earth—-

And of heaven—& the giant wars—

And Love, & death, [&] birth,

             And then I changed my pipings,

 Singing how down the vale of Menalus,  I pursued a maiden & clasped a reed,  Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!

 It breaks in our bosom & then we bleed!

 All wept, as I think both ye now would  If envy or age had not frozen your blood,  At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

 

                      Tmol. Phoebus, the palm is thine. The Fauns may dance

 To the blithe tune of ever merry Pan;

 But wisdom, beauty, & the power divine  Of highest poesy lives within thy strain.

 Named by the Gods the King of melody,  Receive from my weak hands a second crown.

              Pan. Old Grey-beard, you say false! you think by this

 To win Apollo with his sultry beams

 To thaw your snowy head, & to renew  The worn out soil of your bare, ugly hill.  I do appeal to Phrygian Midas here;  Let him decide, he is no partial judge.

             Mid. Immortal Pan, to my poor, mortal ears

 Your sprightly song in melody outweighs

 His drowsy tune; he put me fast asleep,

 As my prime minister, Zopyrion, knows;

            But your gay notes awoke me, & to you,

If I were Tmolus, would I give the prize.

          Apol. And who art thou who dar’st among the Gods  Mingle thy mortal voice? Insensate fool!

 Does not the doom of Marsyas fill with dread  Thy impious soul? or would’st thou also be  Another victim to my justest wrath?  But fear no more;—thy punishment shall be  But as a symbol of thy blunted sense.

 Have asses’ ears! and thus to the whole world  Wear thou the marks of what thou art,  Let Pan himself blush at such a judge.

             (Exeunt all except Midas & Zopyrion.)

            Mid. What said he? is it true, Zopyrion?

 Yet if it be; you must not look on me,

 But shut your eyes, nor dare behold my shame.

 Ah! here they are! two long, smooth asses[’] ears!  They stick upright! Ah, I am sick with shame!

          Zopyr. I cannot tell your Majesty my grief,  Or how my soul’s oppressed with the sad change  That has, alas! befallen your royal ears.

          Mid. A truce to your fine speeches now, Zopyrion;  To you it appertains to find some mode  Of hiding my sad chance, if not you die.

              Zopyr. Great King, alas! my thoughts are dull & slow[;]

             Pardon my folly, might they not be cut,

 Rounded off handsomely, like human ears [?]

           Mid. (feeling his ears)

They’re long & thick; I fear ’twould give me pain; And then if vengeful Phoebus should command Another pair to grow—that will not do.

             Zopyr. You wear a little crown of carved gold,

 Which just appears to tell you are a king;

 If that were large and had a cowl of silk,

 Studded with gems, which none would dare gainsay,  Then might you—

            Mid. Now you have it! friend,

 I will reward you with some princely gift.

 But, hark! Zopyrion, not a word of this;

 If to a single soul you tell my shame

 You die. I’ll to the palace the back way

 And manufacture my new diadem,

 The which all other kings shall imitate  As if they also had my asses[’] ears.

           (Exit.)

           Zopyr. (watching Midas off)

 He cannot hear me now, and I may laugh!

 I should have burst had he staid longer here.  Two long, smooth asses’ ears that stick upright;  Oh, that Apollo had but made him bray!  I’ll to the palace; there I’ll laugh my fill

             With—hold! What were the last words that Midas said?

 I may not speak—not to my friends disclose  The strangest tale? ha! ha! and when I laugh

 I must not tell the cause? none know the truth?

None know King Midas has—but who comes here?

It is Asphalion: he knows not this change; I must look grave & sad; for now a smile If Midas knows it may prove capital.  Yet when I think of those—oh! I shall die,  In either way, by silence or by speech.

           Enter Asphalion.

             Asphal. Know you, Zopyrion?—

           Zopyr. What[!] you know it too?

 Then I may laugh;—oh, what relief is this!

 How does he look, the courtiers gathering round?

 Does he hang down his head, & his ears too?  Oh, I shall die! (laughs.)

            Asph. He is a queer old dog,

 Yet not so laughable. ’Tis true, he’s drunk,

 And sings and reels under the broad, green leaves,  And hanging clusters of his crown of grapes.—         Zopyr. A crown of grapes! but can that hide his ears[?]

          Asph. His ears!—Oh, no! they stick upright between.  When Midas saw him—

            Zopyr. Whom then do you mean?

           Did you not say—

            Asph. I spoke of old Silenus;

 Who having missed his way in these wild woods,

 And lost his tipsey company—was found

 Sucking the juicy clusters of the vines  That sprung where’er he trod:—and reeling on  Some shepherds found him in yon ilex wood.

They brought him to the king, who honouring him

For Bacchus’ sake, has gladly welcomed him,

And will conduct him with solemnity

 To the disconsolate Fauns from whom he’s strayed.

 But have you seen the new-fashioned diadem  That Midas wears?—

            Zopyr. Ha! he has got it on!—

 Know you the secret cause why with such care  He hides his royal head? you have not seen—           Asph. Seen what?

            Zopyr. Ah! then, no matter:— (turns away agitated.)

 I dare not sneak or stay[;]  If I remain I shall discover all.

          Asp. I see the king has trusted to your care  Some great state secret which you fain would hide.  I am your friend, trust my fidelity,

             If you’re in doubt I’ll be your counsellor.

          Zopyr. (with great importance.)  Secret, Asphalion! How came you to know?

 If my great master (which I do not say)

 Should think me a fit friend in whom to pour

 The weighty secrets of his royal heart,  Shall I betray his trust? It is not so;—  I am a poor despised slave.—No more!  Join we the festal band which will conduct  Silenus to his woods again?

           Asph. My friend,

 Wherefore mistrust a faithful heart? Confide

The whole to me;—I will be still as death.

          Zopyr. As death! you know not what you say; farewell[!]  A little will I commune with my soul,  And then I’ll join you at the palace-gate.

            Asph. Will you then tell me?—

            Zopyr. Cease to vex, my friend,

 Your soul and mine with false suspicion, (aside) Oh!  I am choked! I’d give full ten years of my life  To tell, to laugh—& yet I dare not speak.

          Asph. Zopyrion, remember that you hurt  The trusting bosom of a faithful friend  By your unjust concealment.

           (Exit.)

           Zopyr. Oh, he’s gone!

 To him I dare not speak, nor yet to Lacon;  No human ears may hear what must be told.

 I cannot keep it in, assuredly;

 I shall some night discuss it in my sleep.

 It will not keep! Oh! greenest reeds that sway

 And nod your feathered heads beneath the sun,

 Be you depositaries of my soul,

 Be you my friends in this extremity[:]

 I shall not risk my head when I tell you

 The fatal truth, the heart oppressing fact,

            (stooping down & whispering)

  (Enter Midas, Silenus & others, who fall back during the scene; Midas is always anxious about his crown, & Zopyrion gets behind him & tries to smother his laughter.)

              Silen. (very drunk) Again I find you, Bacchus, runaway!

 Welcome, my glorious boy! Another time

 Stray not; or leave your poor old foster-father

 In the wild mazes of a wood, in which

 I might have wandered many hundred years,

 Had not some merry fellows helped me out,

 And had not this king kindly welcomed me,

 I might have fared more ill than you erewhile  In Pentheus’ prisons, that death fated rogue.

          Bac. (to Midas.) To you I owe great thanks & will reward  Your hospitality. Tell me your name  And what this country is.

            Midas. My name is Midas—

           The Reeds (nodding their heads).

            Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass.

            Midas. (turning round & seizing Zopyrion).

 Villain, you lie! he dies who shall repeat

 Those traitrous words. Seize on Zopyrion!

             The Reeds. Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass.

          Mid. Search through the crowd; it is a woman’s voice  That dares belie her king, & makes her life  A forfeit to his fury.

            Asph. There is no woman here.

          Bac. Calm yourself, Midas; none believe the tale,  Some impious man or gamesome faun dares feign  In vile contempt of your most royal ears.

Off with your crown, & shew the world the lie!

          Mid. (holding his crown tight)  Never! What[!] shall a vile calumnious slave  Dictate the actions of a crowned king?

 Zopyrion, this lie springs from you—you perish!

            Zopy. I, say that Midas has got asses’ ears?

 May great Apollo strike me with his shaft  If to a single soul I ever told  So false, so foul a calumny!

          Bac. Midas!

             The Reeds. Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass.

          Bac. Silence! or by my Godhead I strike dead  Who shall again insult the noble king.

 Midas, you are my friend, for you have saved

 And hospitably welcomed my old faun;

 Choose your reward, for here I swear your wish,  Whatever it may be, shall be fulfilled.

             Zopyr. (aside) Sure he will wish his asses’ ears in Styx.

                 Midas. What[!] may I choose from out the deep, rich mine

 Of human fancy, & the wildest thoughts  That passed till now unheeded through my brain,  A wish, a hope, to be fulfilled by you?

 Nature shall bend her laws at my command,  And I possess as my reward one thing  That I have longed for with unceasing care.

             Bac. Pause, noble king, ere you express this wish[.]

 Let not an error or rash folly spoil

My benefaction; pause and then declare,

 For what you ask shall be, as I have sworn.

              Mid. Let all I touch be gold, most glorious gold!

             Let me be rich! and where I stretch my hands,

 (That like Orion I could touch the stars!)  Be radiant gold! God Bacchus, you have sworn,  I claim your word,—my ears are quite forgot!

             The Reeds. Midas, the king, has the ears of an ass.

            Mid. You lie, & yet I care not—

            Zopyr. (aside to Midas) Yet might I

 But have advised your Majesty, I would  Have made one God undo the other’s work—

          Midas. (aside to Zopyr).

 Advise yourself, my friend, or you may grow  Shorter by a head ere night.—I am blessed,  Happier than ever earthly man could boast.  Do you fulfil your words?

           Bac. Yes, thoughtless man!

 And much I fear if you have not the ears  You have the judgement of an ass. Farewel!  I found you rich & happy; & I leave you,  Though you know it not, miserably poor.

 Your boon is granted,—touch! make gold! Some here  Help carry old Silenus off, who sleeps  The divine sleep of heavy wine. Farewel!

              Mid. Bacchus, divine, how shall I pay my thanks[?]

           (Exeunt.)

END OF FIRST ACT.

 

ACT II

 

             Scene; a splendid apartment in the Palace of Midas.

           Enter Midas

 (with a golden rose in his hand).

             Mid. Gold! glorious gold! I am made up of gold!

 I pluck a rose, a silly, fading rose,

 Its soft, pink petals change to yellow gold;

 Its stem, its leaves are gold—and what before

 Was fit for a poor peasant’s festal dress

 May now adorn a Queen. I lift a stone,

 A heavy, useless mass, a slave would spurn,  What is more valueless? ’Tis solid gold!

 A king might war on me to win the same.

 And as I pass my hand thus through the air,  A little shower of sightless dust falls down  A shower of gold. O, now I am a king!

 I’ve spread my hands against my palace walls,  I’ve set high ladders up, that I may touch

 Each crevice and each cornice with my hands,

 And it will all be gold:—a golden palace,

 Surrounded by a wood of golden trees,

 Which will bear golden fruits.—The very ground  My naked foot treads on is yellow gold,

            Invaluable gold! my dress is gold!

 Now I am great! Innumerable armies

Wait till my gold collects them round my throne;  I see my standard made of woven gold.  Waving o’er Asia’s utmost Citadels,  Guarded by myriads invincible.

 Or if the toil of war grows wearisome,

 I can buy Empires:—India shall be mine,

 Its blooming beauties, gold-encrusted baths,

 Its aromatic groves and palaces,

 All will be mine! Oh, Midas, ass-eared king!

 I love thee more than any words can tell,  That thus thy touch, thou man akin to Gods,

 Can change all earth to heaven,—Olympian gold!

 For what makes heaven different from earth!

 Look how my courtiers come! Magnificent!  None shall dare wait on me but those who bear  An empire on their backs in sheets of gold.

 Oh, what a slave I was! my flocks & kine,

 My vineyards & my corn were all my wealth

 And men esteemed me rich; but now Great Jove

 Transcends me but by lightning, and who knows

 If my gold win not the Cyclopean Powers,

 And Vulcan, who must hate his father’s rule,

             To forge me bolts?—and then—but hush! they come.

             Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion, & Lacon.

             Lac. Pardon us, mighty king—

           Mid. What would ye, slaves?

 Oh! I could buy you all with one slight touch  Of my gold-making hand!

           Asph. Royal Midas,

 We humbly would petition for relief.

          Mid. Relief I Bring me your copper coin, your brass,  Or what ye will—ye’ll speedily be rich.

          Zopyr. ’Tis not for gold, but to be rid of gold,  That we intrude upon your Majesty.

 I fear that you will suffer by this gift,  As we do now. Look at our backs bent down  With the huge weight of the great cloaks of gold.

 Permit us to put on our shabby dress,

 Our poor despised garments of light wool:—  We walk as porters underneath a load.

 Pity, great king, our human weaknesses,  Nor force us to expire—

           Mid. Begone, ye slaves!

 Go clothe your wretched limbs in ragged skins!  Take an old carpet to wrap round your legs,

          A broad leaf for your feet—ye shall not wear  That dress—those golden sandals—monarch like.

          Asph. If you would have us walk a mile a day  We cannot thus—already we are tired

 With the huge weight of soles of solid gold.

             Mid. Pitiful wretches! Earth-born, groveling dolts!

 Begone! nor dare reply to my just wrath!

 Never behold me more! or if you stay  Let not a sigh, a shrug, a stoop betray

 What poor, weak, miserable men you are.

 Not as I—I am a God! Look, dunce!

I tread or leap beneath this load of gold!

            (Jumps & stops suddenly.)

          I’ve hurt my back:—this cloak is wondrous hard!  No more of this! my appetite would say  The hour is come for my noon-day repast.

          Lac. It comes borne in by twenty lusty slaves,  Who scarce can lift the mass of solid gold,  That lately was a table of light wood.

 Here is the heavy golden ewer & bowl,

 In which, before you eat, you wash your hands.

           Mid. (lifting up the ewer)

 This is to be a king! to touch pure gold!

          Would that by touching thee, Zopyrion,  I could transmute thee to a golden man;  A crowd of golden slaves to wait on me!

            (Pours the water on his hands.)

            But how is this? the water that I touch

 Falls down a stream of yellow liquid gold,

 And hardens as it falls. I cannot wash—  Pray Bacchus, I may drink! and the soft towel  With which I’d wipe my hands transmutes itself  Into a sheet of heavy gold.—No more!

 I’ll sit and eat:—I have not tasted food

 For many hours, I have been so wrapt

 In golden dreams of all that I possess,

 I had not time to eat; now hunger calls

 And makes me feel, though not remote in power

 From the immortal Gods, that I need food,

The only remnant of mortality!

             (In vain attempts to eat of several dishes.)

            Alas! my fate! ’tis gold! this peach is gold!

 This bread, these grapes & all I touch! this meat  Which by its scent quickened my appetite

 Has lost its scent, its taste,—’tis useless gold.

             Zopyr. (aside) He’d better now have followed my advice.

            He starves by gold yet keeps his asses’ ears.

          Mid. Asphalion, put that apple to my mouth;  If my hands touch it not perhaps I eat.

 Alas! I cannot bite! as it approached

 I felt its fragrance, thought it would be mine,

 But by the touch of my life-killing lips

 ’Tis changed from a sweet fruit to tasteless gold,  Bacchus will not refresh me by his gifts,

 The liquid wine congeals and flies my taste.

 Go, miserable slaves! Oh, wretched king!

 Away with food! Its sight now makes me sick.  Bring in my couch! I will sleep off my care,  And when I wake I’ll coin some remedy.  I dare not bathe this sultry day, for fear  I be enclosed in gold. Begone!

 I will to rest:—oh, miserable king!

  (Exeunt all but Midas. He lies down, turns restlessly for some time & then rises.)

             Oh! fool! to wish to change all things to gold!

 Blind Ideot that I was! This bed is gold;

 And this hard, weighty pillow, late so soft,

That of itself invited me to rest,

 Is a hard lump, that if I sleep and turn

             I may beat out my brains against its sides.

 Oh! what a wretched thing I am! how blind!

 I cannot eat, for all my food is gold;

 Drink flies my parched lips, and my hard couch  Is worse than rock to my poor bruised sides.

 I cannot walk; the weight of my gold soles

 Pulls me to earth:—my back is broke beneath  These gorgeous garments— (throws off his cloak)  Lie there, golden cloak!

 There on thy kindred earth, lie there and rot!  I dare not touch my forehead with my palm  For fear my very flesh should turn to gold.

 Oh! let me curse thee, vilest, yellow dirt!

 Here, on my knees, thy martyr lifts his voice,

 A poor, starved wretch who can touch nought but thee[,]  Wilt thou refresh me in the heat of noon?

 Canst thou be kindled for me when I’m cold?  May all men, & the immortal Gods,  Hate & spurn thee as wretched I do now.

  (Kicks the couch, & tries to throw down the pillow but cannot lift it.)

            I’d dash, thee to the earth, but that thy weight

            Preserves thee, abhorred, Tartarian Gold!

 Bacchus, O pity, pardon, and restore me!  Who waits?

           Enter Lacon.

            Go bid the priests that they prepare

Most solemn song and richest sacrifise;—  Which I may not dare touch, lest it should turn  To most unholy gold.

            Lacon. Pardon me, oh King,

 But perhaps the God may give that you may eat,  And yet your touch be magic.

           Mid. No more, thou slave!

 Gold is my fear, my bane, my death! I hate  Its yellow glare, its aspect hard and cold.

 I would be rid of all.—Go bid them haste.

           (Exit Lacon.)

             Oh, Bacchus I be propitious to their prayer!

 Make me a hind, clothe me in ragged skins—  And let my food be bread, unsavoury roots,  But take from me the frightful curse of gold.

 Am I not poor? Alas! how I am changed!

 Poorer than meanest slaves, my piles of wealth

 Cannot buy for me one poor, wretched dish:—

 In summer heat I cannot bathe, nor wear  A linen dress; the heavy, dull, hard metal  Clings to me till I pray for poverty.

             Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion & Lacon.

             Zopyr. The sacrifice is made, & the great God,

 Pitying your ills, oh King, accepted it,

 Whilst his great oracle gave forth these words.

 “Let poor king Midas bathe in the clear stream

 “Of swift Pactolus, & to those waves tran[s]fer “The gold-transmuting power, which he repents.”

             Mid. Oh joy! Oh Bacchus, thanks for this to thee

 Will I each year offer three sucking lambs—  Games will I institute—nor Pan himself  Shall have more honour than thy deity.  Haste to the stream,—I long to feel the cool  And liquid touch of its divinest waves.

              (Exeunt all except Zopyrion and Asphalion.)

              Asph. Off with our golden sandals and our cloaks!

 Oh, I shall ever hate the sight of gold!  Poor, wealthy Midas runs as if from death  To rid him quick of this meta[l]lic curse.

          Zopyr. (aside) I wonder if his asses[’] ears are gold;  What would I give to let the secret out?

 Gold! that is trash, we have too much of it,—  But I would give ten new born lambs to tell  This most portentous truth—but I must choke.

          Asph. Now we shall tend our flocks and reap our corn  As we were wont, and not be killed by gold.

            Golden fleeces threatened our poor sheep,

 The very showers as they fell from heaven

 Could not refresh the earth; the wind blew gold,

 And as we walked the thick sharp-pointed atoms

 Wounded our faces—the navies would have sunk—

          Zopyr. All strangers would have fled our gold-cursed shore,

 Till we had bound our wealthy king, that he

 Might leave the green and fertile earth unchanged;—

Then in deep misery he would have shook His golden chains & starved.

           Enter Lacon.

            Lacon. Sluggards, how now I

 Have you not been to gaze upon the sight?  To see the noble king cast off the gift

 Which he erewhile so earnestly did crave[?]

          Asph. I am so tired with the weight of gold  I bore to-day I could not budge a foot  To see the finest sight Jove could display.  But tell us, Lacon, what he did and said.

              Lac. Although he’d fain have run[,] his golden dress

 And heavy sandals made the poor king limp

 As leaning upon mine and the high priest’s arm,

 He hastened to Pactolus. When he saw

 The stream—“Thanks to the Gods!” he cried aloud

 In joy; then having cast aside his robes

 He leaped into the waves, and with his palm

              Throwing the waters high—“This is not gold,”

 He cried, “I’m free, I have got rid of gold.”

 And then he drank, and seizing with delight

 A little leaf that floated down the stream,  “Thou art not gold,” he said—

            Zopyr. But all this time—

 Did you behold?—Did he take off his crown?—

          Lacon. No:—It was strange to see him as he plunged  Hold tight his crown with his left hand the while.

                Zopyr. (aside) Alas, my fate! I thought they had been seen.

             Lac. He ordered garments to the river side

 Of coarsest texture;—those that erst he wore  He would not touch, for they were trimmed with gold.

             Zopyr. And yet he did not throw away his crown?

          Lac. He ever held it tight as if he thought  Some charm attached to its remaining there.  Perhaps he is right;—know you, Zopyrion,

 If that strange voice this morning spoke the truth?

          Zopyr. Nay guess;—think of what passed & you can judge.  I dare not—I know nothing of his ears.

          Lac. I am resolved some night when he sleeps sound  To get a peep.—No more,’tis he that comes.

 He has now lost the boon that Bacchus gave,  Having bestowed it on the limpid waves.

          Now over golden sands Pactolus runs,  And as it flows creates a mine of wealth.

             Enter Midas, (with grapes in his hand).

             Mid. I see again the trees and smell the flowers

 With colours lovelier than the rainbow’s self;

 I see the gifts of rich-haired Ceres piled

 And eat. (holding up the grapes)

 This is not yellow, dirty gold,

 But blooms with precious tints, purple and green.

 I hate this palace and its golden floor,

 Its cornices and rafters all of gold:—  I’ll build a little bower of freshest green, Canopied o’er with leaves & floored with moss:—

I’ll dress in skins;—I’ll drink from wooden cups  And eat on wooden platters—sleep on flock;  None but poor men shall dare attend on me.

 All that is gold I’ll banish from my court,

 Gilding shall be high treason to my state,  The very name of gold shall be crime capital[.]        Zopyr. May we not keep our coin?

           Mid. No, Zopyrion,

 None but the meanest peasants shall have gold.

 It is a sordid, base and dirty thing:—

 Look at the grass, the sky, the trees, the flowers,

             These are Joves treasures & they are not gold:—

 Now they are mine, I am no longer cursed.—  The hapless river hates its golden sands,  As it rolls over them, having my gift;—  Poor harmless shores! they now are dirty gold.  How I detest it! Do not the Gods hate gold?

 Nature displays the treasures that she loves,

 She hides gold deep in the earth & piles above  Mountains & rocks to keep the monster down.

              Asph. They say Apollo’s sunny car is gold.

             Mid. Aye, so it is for Gold belongs to him:—

 But Phoebus is my bitterest enemy,

 And what pertains to him he makes my bane.

             Zopyr. What [!] will your Majesty tell the world?—

             Mid. Peace, vile gossip! Asphalion, come you here.

 Look at those golden columns; those inlaid walls;

The ground, the trees, the flowers & precious food

 That in my madness I did turn to gold:—  Pull it all down, I hate its sight and touch;  Heap up my cars & waggons with the load  And yoke my kine to drag it to the sea:

 Then crowned with flowers, ivy & Bacchic vine,  And singing hymns to the immortal Gods,

             We will ascend ships freighted with the gold,

 And where no plummet’s line can sound the depth  Of greedy Ocean, we will throw it in,  All, all this frightful heap of yellow dirt.

 Down through the dark, blue waters it will sink,

 Frightening the green-haired Nereids from their sport  And the strange Tritons—the waves will close above  And I, thank Bacchus, ne’er shall see it more!

 And we will make all echoing heaven ring

 With our loud hymns of thanks, & joyous pour

 Libations in the deep, and reach the land,

 Rich, happy, free & great, that we have lost  Man’s curse, heart-bartering, soul-enchaining gold.