When she saw the gate-keepers fled, the house unguarded, the rusted hinges, the overthrown doorposts, and the miserable state of the silent halls, pausing not to look again at the disaster, she rent her garment and tore away the shattered corn-ears along with her hair. She could not weep nor speak nor breathe and a trembling shook the very marrow of her bones; her faltering steps tottered. She flung open the doors and wandering through the empty rooms and deserted halls, recognized the half-ruined warp with its disordered threads and the work of the loom broken off. The goddess’ labours had come to naught, and what remained to be done, that the bold spider was finishing with her sacrilegious web.
She weeps not nor bewails the ill; only kisses the loom and stifles her dumb complaints amid the threads, clasping to her bosom, as though it had been her child, the spindles her child’s hand had touched, the wool she had cast aside, and all the toys scattered in maiden sport. She scans the virgin bed, the deserted couch, and the chair where Proserpine had sat: even as a herd, whose drove the unexpected fury of an African lion or bands of marauding beasts have attacked, gazes in amaze at the vacant stall, and, too late returned, wanders through the emptied pastures, sadly calling to the unreplying steers.
And there, in the innermost parts of the house, she saw lying Electra, loving nurse of Proserpine, best known among the old Nymphs of Ocean; she who loved Proserpine as did Ceres. ’Twas she who, when Proserpine had left her cradle, would bear her in her loving bosom and bring the little girl to mighty Jove and set her to play on her father’s
knee. She was her companion, her guardian, and could be deemed her second mother. There, with torn and dishevelled hair, all foul with grey dust, she was lamenting the rape of her divine foster-child.
Ceres approached her, and when at length her grief allowed her sighs free rein: “What ruin is here?” she said. “Of what enemy am I become the victim? Does my husband yet rule or do the Titans hold heaven? What hand hath dared this, if the Thunderer be still alive? Have Typhon’s shoulders forced up Inarime or does Alcyoneus course on foot through the Etruscan Sea, having burst the bonds of imprisoning Vesuvius? Or has the neighbouring mountain of Etna oped her jaws and expelled Enceladus? Perchance Briareus with his hundred arms has attacked my house? Ah, my daughter, where art thou now? Whither are fled my thousand servants, whither Cyane? What violence has driven away the winged Sirens? Is this your faith? Is this the way to guard another’s treasure?”
The nurse trembled and her sorrow gave place to shame; fain would she have died could she so escape the gaze of that unhappy mother, and long stayed she motionless, hesitating to disclose the suspected criminal and the all too certain death. Scarce could she thus speak: “Would that the raging band of Giants had wrought this ruin! Easier to bear is a common lot. ’Tis the goddesses, and, though thou wilt scarce credit it, her own sisters, who have conspired to our undoing. Thou seest the devices of gods and wounds inflicted by sisters’ jealousy. Heaven is a more cruel enemy than Hell.
“All quiet was the house, the maiden dared not
o’erstep the threshold nor visit the grassy pastures, close bound by thy commands. The loom gave her work, the Sirens with their song relaxation—with me she held pleasant converse, with me she slept; safe delights were hers within the halls. Then suddenly Cytherea came (who showed her the way to our hid abode I know not), and, that she might not rouse our suspicions, she brought with her Diana and Minerva, attending her on either side. Straightway with beaming smiles she put on a pretence of joy, kissed Proserpine many a time, and repeated the name of sister, complaining of that hard-hearted mother who chose to condemn such beauty to imprisonment and complaining that by forbidding her intercourse with the goddesses she had removed her far from her father’s heaven. My unwitting charge rejoiced in these evil words and bade a feast be spread with plentiful nectar. Now she dons Diana’s arms and dress and tries her bow with her soft fingers. Now crowned with horse-hair plumes she puts on the helmet, Minerva commending her, and strives to carry her huge shield.
“Venus was the first with guileful suggestion to mention fields and the vale of Henna. Cunningly she harps upon the nearness of the flowery mead, and as though she knew it not, asks what merits the place boasts, pretending not to believe that a harmless winter allows the roses to bloom, that the cold months are bright with flowers not rightly theirs, and that the spring thickets fear not there Boötes’ wrath. So with her wonderment, her passion to see the spot, she persuades Proserpine. Alas! how easily does youth err with its weak ways! What tears did I not shed to no purpose, what vain
entreaties did my lips not utter! Away she flew, trusting to the sisters’ protection; the scattered company of attendant nymphs followed after her.
“They went to the hills clothed with undying grass and gather flowers ’neath the twilight of dawn, when the quiet meads are white with dew and violets drink the scattered moisture. But when the sun had mounted to higher air at noon, behold! murky night hid the sky and the island trembled and shook beneath the beat of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of wheels. Who the charioteer was none might tell—whether he was the harbinger of death or it was Death himself. Gloom spread through the meadows, the rivers stayed their courses, the fields were blighted, nor did aught live, once touched with those horses’ breath. I saw the bryony pale, the roses fade, the lilies wither. When in his roaring course the driver turned back his steeds the night it brought accompanied the chariot and light was restored to the world. Proserpine was nowhere to be seen. Their vows fulfilled, the goddesses had returned and tarried not. We found Cyane half dead amid the fields; there she lay, a garland round her neck and the blackened wreaths faded upon her forehead. At once we approached her and inquired after her mistress’s fortune, for she had been a witness of the disaster. What, we asked, was the aspect of the horses; who their driver? Naught said she, but corrupted with some hidden venom, dissolved into water. Water crept amid her hair; legs and arms melted and flowed away, and soon a clear stream washed our feet. The rest are gone; the Sirens, Achelous’ daughters, rising on rapid wing, have occupied the coast of Sicilian Pelorus, and in wrath
at this crime now turned their lyres to man’s destruction, tuneful now for ill. Their sweet voices stay ships, but once that song is heard the oars can move no more. I alone am left in the house to drag out an old age of mourning.”
Ceres is still a prey to anxiety; half distraught she fears everything as though all were not yet accomplished. Anon she turns her head and eyes to heaven and with raging breast inveighs against its denizens; even as lofty Niphates shakes to the roaring of the Hyrcan tigress whose cubs the terrified horseman has carried off to be the playthings of Persia’s king. Speedier than the west wind that is her paramour[129] rushes the tigress, anger blazing from her stripes, but just as she is about to engulf the terrified hunter in her capacious maw, she is checked by the mirrored image of her own form[130]: so the mother of Proserpine rages over all Olympus crying: “Give her back; no wandering stream gave me birth; I spring not from the Dryad rabble. Towered Cybele bare me also to Saturn. Where are the ordinances of the gods, where the laws of heaven? What boots it to live a good life? See, Cytherea dares show her face (modest goddess!) even after her Lemnian[131] bondage! ’Tis that chaste sleep and a loverless couch have given her this courage! This is, I suppose, the reward of those maidenly embraces! Small wonder that after such infamy she account nothing disgraceful. Ye goddesses that have known not marriage, is it thus that ye neglect the honour due to virginity?
[129] marito Zephyro (ll. 265, 266) refers to the theory of impregnation by wind commonly accepted by the ancients (see Arist. H.A. vi. 19; Verg. Georg. iii. 275, etc.).
[130] It was supposed that the robbed tigress on being confronted with a convex mirror supposed the reduced image to be her cub and contentedly retired with the mirror in her mouth. Another story makes the tigress vent her anger on an ordinary (not convex) mirror.
[131] A reference to the binding by Hephaestus (to whom Lemnos was sacred) of Ares and Aphrodite whom he had surprised in adulterous intercourse. The story is told in Homer (Θ 266 et sqq.). Statius (Silv. i. 2. 60) uses this very phrase “Lemnia vincula.”
Have ye so changed your counsel? Do ye now go allied with Venus and her accomplice ravishers? Worthy each of you to be worshipped in Scythian temples and at altars that lust after human blood. What hath caused such great anger? Which of you has my Proserpine wronged even in her slightest word? Doubtless she drove thee, Delian goddess, from thy loved woods, or deprived thee, Triton-born, of some battle thou hadst joined. Did she plague you with talk? Break rudely upon your dances? Nay, that she might be no burden to you, she dwelt far away in the solitudes of Sicily. What good hath her retirement done her? No peace can still the madness of bitter jealousy.”
Thus she upbraids them all. But they, obedient to the Father’s word, keep silence or say they know nothing, and make tears their answer to the mother’s questionings. What can she do? She ceases, beaten, and in turn descends to humble entreaty. “If a mother’s love swelled too high or if I have done aught more boldly than befitted misery, oh forgive! A suppliant and wretched I fling me at your feet; grant me to learn my doom; grant me at least this much—sure knowledge of my woes. Fain would I know the manner of this ill; whatsoever fortune ye have visited upon me that will I bear and account it fate, not injustice. Grant a parent the sight of her child; I ask her not back. Whosoever thou art, possess in peace what thine hand has taken. The prey is thine, fear not. But if the ravisher has thwarted me, binding you by some oath, yet do thou, at least, Latona, tell me his name; to thee mayhap Diana hath confessed her knowledge. Thou hast known childbirth, the anxiety
and love for children; to offspring twain hast thou given birth; this was mine only child. So mayest thou ever enjoy Apollo’s locks, so mayest thou live a happier mother than I.”
Plenteous tears then bedewed her cheeks. She continued: “Why these tears? why this silence? Woe is me; all desert me. Why tarriest thou yet to no purpose? Seest thou not ’tis open war with heaven? were it not better to seek again thy daughter by sea and land? I will gird myself and scour the world, unwearied I will penetrate its every corner, nor ever stay my search, nor rest nor sleep till I find my reft treasure, though she lie whelmed in the Spanish Ocean bed or hedged around in the depths of the Red Sea. Neither ice-bound Rhine nor Alpine frosts shall stay me; the treacherous tides of Syrtes shall not give me pause. My purpose holds to penetrate the fastnesses of the North and to tread the snowy home of Boreas. I will climb Atlas on the brink of the sunset and illumine Hydaspes’ stream with my torches. Let wicked Jove behold me wandering through towns and country, and Juno’s jealousy be sated with her rival’s ruin. Have your sport with me, triumph in heaven, proud gods, celebrate your illustrious victory o’er Ceres’ conquered daughter.”
So spake she and glides down upon Etna’s familiar slopes, there to fashion torches to aid her night-wandering labours.
There was a wood, hard by the stream of Acis, which fair Galatea oft chooses in preference to Ocean and cleaves in swimming with her snowy breast—a wood dense with foliage that closed in Etna’s summit on all sides with interwoven branches. “Tis there that Jove is said to have laid down his
bloody shield and set his captured spoil after the battle. The grove glories in trophies from the plain of Phlegra and signs of victory clothe its every tree. Here hang the gaping jaws and monstrous skins of the Giants; affixed to trees their faces still threaten horribly, and heaped up on all sides bleach the huge bones of slaughtered serpents. Their stiffening sloughs smoke with the blow of many a thunderbolt, and every tree boasts some illustrious name. This one scarce supports on its down-bended branches the naked swords of hundred-handed Aegaeon; that glories in the murky trophies of Coeus; this bears up the arms of Mimas; spoiled Ophion weighs down those branches. But higher than all the other trees towers a pine, its shady branches spread wide, and bears the reeking arms of Enceladus himself, all powerful king of the Earth-born giants; it would have fallen beneath the heavy burden did not a neighbouring oak-tree support its wearied weight. Therefore the spot wins awe and sanctity; none touches the aged grove, and ’tis accounted a crime to violate the trophies of the gods. No Cyclops dares pasture there his flock nor hew down the trees, Polyphemus himself flies from the hallowed shade.
Not for that did Ceres stay her steps; the very sanctity of the place inflames her wrath; with angry hand she brandishes her axe, ready to strike Jove himself. She hesitates whether to cut down pines or lay low knotless cedars, scans likely trunks and lofty trees and shakes their branches with vigorous hand. Even so when a man, fain to carry merchandise over distant seas, builds a ship on dry land and makes ready to expose his life to the tempest, he hews down
beech and elm and marks the diverse utility of the yet growing forest; the lofty tree he selects as yardarms for the swelling sail; the strong he prefers as a mast; the pliant will make good oars; the waterproof is suitable for the keel.
Two cypresses in the grass hard by raised their inviolate heads to heaven; Simois looks not on such in amaze amid the crags of Ida, nor does Orontes water their like, Orontes that feeds Apollo’s grove and harbours rich cities on his banks. You would know them for sisters for they tower equal in height and look down upon the wood with twin tops. These she would have as torches; she attacks each with vigorous blows, her gown girt back, her arms bared and armed with the axe. First one she strikes, then the other, and rains blows upon their trembling trunks with might and main. Together they crash to the ground, lay their foliage in the dust and lie upon the plain, wept of Fauns and wood-nymphs. She seizes both just as they are, uplifts them and, with hair out-streaming behind her, climbs panting the slopes of the mountain, passes beyond the flames and inaccessible precipices, and treads the lava that brooks no mortal footstep: even as the grim Megaera hastens to kindle yew-trees to light her to crime, speeding her journey to the walls of Cadmus’ city or meaning to work her devilment in Thyestean Mycenae; darkness and the shades give her passage, and Hell rings to her iron tread, till she halts beside Phlegethon’s wave and fires her torch from its brimming waves.
When she had climbed to the mouth of the burning rock, straightway, turning aside her head, she thrust the kindling cypresses into its inmost depths, thus closing in the cavern on all sides and stopping up the
blazing exit of the flames. The mountain thunders with repressed fire and Vulcan is shut in a grievous prison; the enclosed smoke cannot escape. The cone-bearing tops of the cypresses blaze and Etna grows with new ashes; the branches crackle, kindled with the sulphur. Then, lest their long journey should cause them to fail, she bids the flames never die nor sleep and drenches the wood with that secret drug[132] wherewith Phaëthon bedews his steeds and the Moon her bulls.
Silent night had now in her turn visited upon the world her gift of sleep. Ceres, with her wounded breast, starts on her long journey and, as she sets out, speaks as follows: “Little thought I, Proserpine, to carry for thee such torches as these. I had hoped what every mother hopes; marriage and festal torches and a wedding-song to be sung in heaven—such was my expectation. Are we divinities thus the sport of fate? does Lachesis vent her spleen on us as on mankind? How lofty was but now mine estate, surrounded with suitors innumerable for my daughter’s hand! What mother of many children but would have owned her my inferior by reason of my only daughter! Thou wast my first joy and my last; I was called prolific for that I bare thee. Thou wert my glory, my comfort, dear object of a mother’s pride; with thee alive I was goddess indeed, with thee safe I was Juno’s equal. Now am I outcast, beggared. ’Tis the Father’s will. Yet why make Jove answerable for my tears? ’Twas I who so cruelly undid thee, I confess it, for I deserted thee and heedlessly exposed thee to threatening foes. Too deeply was I enmeshed in careless enjoyment of shrill-voiced revel, and, happy amid the din of arms,
[132] A magic drug or herb on which the sun is said to have fed his horses in order to render them non-inflammable. Ovid tells how Phaëthon was treated by his father in a like way (Met. ii. 122).
[133] Birt omnibus admugit. quocumque it in aequore, fulvis adnatat.…
[134] sulcis ς; fulvis FSV; silvis W.
I was yoking Phrygian lions whilst thou wast being carried off. Yet see the punishment visited upon me. My face is seared with wounds and long gashes furrow my bloody breast. My womb, forgetful that it gave thee birth, is beaten with continual blows.
“Where under heaven shall I find thee? Beneath what quarter of the sky? Who shall point the way, what path shall lead me? What chariot was it? Who was that cruel ravisher? A denizen of earth or sea? What traces of his wingèd wheels can I discover? Whithersoever my steps lead me or chance direct, thither will I go. Even so may Dione be deserted and seek for Venus!
“Will my labours be successful? Shall I ever again be blest with thine embrace, my daughter? Art thou still fair; still glows the brightness of thy cheeks? Or shall I perchance see thee as thou cam’st in my nightly vision; as I saw thee in my dreams?”
So spake she and from Etna first she drags her steps, and, cursing its guilty flowers and the spot whence Proserpine was ravaged, she follows the straying tracks of the chariot-wheels and examines the fields in the full light of her lowered torch. Every rut is wet with her tears; she weeps at each trace she espies in her wanderings over the plain. She glides a shadow o’er the sea and the farthest ray of her torches’ gleam strikes the coasts of Italy and Libya. The Tuscan shore grows bright and the Syrtes gleam with kindled wave. The light reaches the distant cave of Scylla, of whose dogs some shrink back and are still in dumb amaze, others, not yet horrified into silence, continue to bark.[135]
[135] For the unfinished state of the poem see Introduction, p. xiv.
[The numbers in the right-hand column are those of Gesner’s edition retained by Birt]
| Panegyricus Probini et Olybrii | I. |
| In Rufinum I. praef. | II. |
| In Rufinum I | III. |
| In Rufinum II. praef. | IV. |
| In Rufinum II | V. |
| Bellum Gildonicum I | XV. |
| In Eutropium I | XVIII. |
| In Eutropium II. praef. | XIX. |
| In Eutropium II | XX. |
| Fescennina de nuptiis Honorii I | XI. |
| Fescennina II | XII. |
| Fescennina III | XIII. |
| Fescennina IV | XIV. |
| Epithalamii de nuptiis Honorii praef. | IX. |
| Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii | X. |
| De tertio consulatu Honorii praef. | VI. |
| De tertio consulatu Honorii | VII. |
| De quarto consulatu Honorii | VIII. |
| Panegyrici Manlii Theodori praef. | XVI. |
| Panegyricus Manlii Theodori | XVII. |
| De consulatu Stilichonis I | XXI. |
| De consulatu Stilichonis II | XXII. |
| De consulatu Stilichonis III. praef. | XXIII. |
| De consulatu Stilichonis III | XXIV. |
| De sexto consulatu Honorii praef. | XXVII. |
| De sexto consulatu Honorii | XXVIII. |
| De bello Gothico praef. | XXV. |
| De bello Gothico | XXVI. |
| [380]c. m. I.: Ad Stilichonem | XIII. |
| c. m. II.: Descriptio portus Smyrnensis | LXXXV. |
| c. m. III.: Ad Aeternalem | LXXXI. |
| c. m. IV.: Descriptio armenti | LIV. |
| c. m. V.: Est in conspectu l.l. | LXXXVI. |
| c. m. VI.: Rimanti telum ira facit | LXXVIII. |
| c. m. VII.: De quadriga marmorea | LXXXVII. |
| c. m. VIII.: De Polycaste et Perdicca | LXIX. |
| c. m. IX.: De hystrice | XLV. |
| c. m. X.: De birro castoreo | XCII. |
| c. m. XI.: In sepulchrum speciosae | XCI. |
| c. m. XII.: De balneis Quintianis | LXXXIV. |
| c. m. XIII.: In podagrum | LXXIX. |
| c. m. XIV.: Ad Maximum | LXXXII. |
| c. m. XV.: De paupere amante | LXXXIX. |
| c. m. XVI.: De eodem | XC. |
| c. m. XVII.: De piis fratribus | L. |
| c. m. XVIII.: De mulabus Gallicis | LI. |
| c. m. XIX.: Ad Gennadium | XLIII. |
| c. m. XX.: De sene Veronensi | LII. |
| c. m. XXI.: De Theodoro et Hadriano | LXXX. |
| c. m. XXII.: Deprecatio ad Hadrianum | XXXIX. |
| c. m. XXIII.: Deprecatio in Alethium | LXXIV. |
| c. m. XXIV.: De locusta | LXXXIII. |
| c. m. XXV.: Epithalamium Palladii | XXX., XXXI. |
| c. m. XXVI.: Aponus | XLIX. |
| c. m. XXVII.: Phoenix | XLIV. |
| c. m. XXVIII.: Nilus | XLVII. |
| c. m. XXIX.: Magnes | XLVIII. |
| c. m. XXX.: Laus Serenae | XXIX. |
| c. m. XXXI.: Epistula ad Serenam | XL. |
| c. m. XXXII.: De Salvatore | XCV. |
| c. m. XXXIII.-XXXIX.: De crystallo | LVI-LXII. |
| c. m. XL.: Epistula ad Olybrium | XLI. |
| c. m. XLI.: Ad Probinum | XLII. |
| c. m. XLII.: De apro et leone | LIII. |
| c. m. XLIII.: In Curetium | LXXV. |
| c. m. XLIV.: In eundem Curetium | LXXVI. |
| c. m. XLV.: De concha | LV. |
| c. m. XLVI.: De chlamyde et frenis | LXXII. |
| c. m. XLVII.: De equo dono dato | LXXIII. |
| c. m. XLVIII.: De zona equi regii | LXX. |
| [381]c. m. XLIX.: De torpedine | XLVI. |
| c. m. L.: In Iacobum | LXXVII. |
| c. m. LI.: In sphaeram Archimedis | LXVIII. |
| c. m. LII.: Gigantomachia | XXXVII. |
| De raptu Proserpinae I. praef. | XXXII. |
| De raptu Proserpinae I. | XXXIII. |
| De raptu Proserpinae II. praef. | XXXIV. |
| De raptu Proserpinae II. | XXXV. |
| De raptu Proserpinae III. | XXXVI. |
[c. m. = Carmina minora]