Artemis.

I'll love them better Ever for thy sake, Cora; but for me The joy of Earth is in the breath of life And animal motions: nor are flowery sweets Dear as the scent of life. His petal'd cup, What is it by the wild fawn's liquid eye Eloquent as love-music 'neath the moon? Nay, not a flower in all thy garden here, Nor wer't a thousand-thousand-fold enhanc't In every charm, but thou wouldst turn from it To view the antler'd stag, that in the glade With the coy gaze of his majestic fear Faced thee a moment ere he turn'd to fly.

PER. But why, then, hunt and kill what thou so lovest?

AR. Dost thou not pluck thy flowers?

PER. 'Tis not the same. Thy victims fly for life: they pant, they scream.

AR. Were they not mortal, sweet, I coud not kill them. They kill each other in their lust for life; Nay, cruelly persecute their blemisht kin: And they that thus are exiled from the herd Slink heart-brok'n to sepulchral solitudes, Defenceless and dishonour'd; there to fall Prey to the hungry glutton of the cave, Or stand in mute pain lingering, till they drop In their last lair upon the ancestral bones.

PER. What is it that offends me?

ATH. 'Tis Pity, child, The mortal thought that clouds the brow of man With dark reserve, or poisoning all delite Drives him upon his knees in tearful prayer To avert his momentary qualms: till Zeus At his reiterated plaint grows wrath, And burdens with fresh curse the curse of care. And they that haunt with men are apt to take Infection of his mind: thy mighty mother Leans to his tenderness.

PER. How should man, dwelling On earth that is so gay, himself be sad? Is not earth gay? Look on the sea, the sky, The flowers!

ATH. 'Tis sad to him because 'tis gay.-- For whether he consider how the flowers, --Thy miracles of beauty above praise,-- Are wither'd in the moment of their glory, So that of all the mounting summer's wealth The show is chang'd each day, and each day dies, Of no more count in Nature's estimate Than crowded bubbles of the fighting foam: Or whether 'tis the sea, whose azure waves Play'd in the same infinity of motion Ages ere he beheld it, and will play For ages after him;--alike 'tis sad To read how beauty dies and he must die.

PER. Were I a man, I would not worship thee, Thou cold essential wisdom. If, as thou say'st, Thought makes men sorrowful, why help his thought To quench enjoyment, who might else as I Revel among bright things, and feast his sense With beauty well-discern'd? Nay, why came ye To share my pastime? Ye love not the flowers.

ATH. Indeed I love thee, child; and love thy flowers,-- Nor less for loving wisely. All emotions, Whether of gods or men, all loves and passions, Are of two kinds; they are either inform'd by wisdom, To reason obedient,--or they are unconducted, Flames of the burning life. The brutes of earth And Pan their master know these last; the first Are seen in me: betwixt the extremes there lie Innumerable alloys and all of evil.

PER. Nay, and I guess your purpose with me well: I am a child, and ye would nurse me up A pupil in your school. I know ye twain Of all the immortals are at one in this; Ye wage of cold disdain a bitter feud With Aphrodite, and ye fear for me, Lest she should draw me to her wanton way. Fear not: my party is taken. Hark! I'll tell What I have chosen, what mankind shall hold Devote and consecrate to me on earth: It is the flowers: but only among the flowers Those that men love for beauty, scent, or hue, Having no other uses: I have found Demeter, my good mother, heeds them not.-- She loves vines, olives, orchards, 'the rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas, But for the idle flowers she hath little care: She will resign them willingly. And think not, Thou wise Athena, I shall go unhonour'd, Or rank a meaner goddess unto man. His spirit setteth beauty before wisdom, Pleasures above necessities, and thus He ever adoreth flowers. Nor this I guess Where rich men only and superfluous kings Around their palaces reform the land To terraces and level lawns, whereon Appointed slaves are told, to tend and feed Lilies and roses and all rarest plants Fetch'd from all lands; that they--these lordly men-- 'Twixt flaunting avenues and wafted odours May pace in indolence: this is their bliss; This first they do: and after, it may be, Within their garden set their academe:-- But in the poorest villages, around The meanest cottage, where no other solace Comforts the eye, some simple gaiety Of flowers in tended garden is seen; some pinks, Tulips, or crocuses that edge the path; Where oft at eve the grateful labourer Sits in his jasmin'd porch, and takes the sun: And even the children, that half-naked go, Have posies in their hands, and of themselves Will choose a queen in whom to honour Spring, Dancing before her garlanded with may. The cowslip makes them truant, they forget The hour of hunger and their homely feast So they may cull the delicate primrose, Sealing their birthright with the touch of beauty; With unconsider'd hecatombs assuring Their dim sense of immortal mystery.-- Yea, rich and poor, from cradle unto grave All men shall love me, shall adore my name, And heap my everlasting shrine with flowers.

ATH. Thou sayest rightly thou art a child. May Zeus Give thee a better province than thy thought.

[Music heard.

AR. Listen! The nymphs are dancing. Let us go!

[They move off.

Come, Cora; wilt thou learn a hunting dance? I'll teach thee.

PER. Can I learn thy hunter-step Without thy bare legs and well-buskin'd feet?

AR. Give me thy hand.

PER. Stay! stay! I have left my flowers. I follow. [Exeunt Athena and Artemis.

[Persephone returning to right slowly.

They understand not--Now, praise be to Zeus, That, tho' I sprang not from his head, I know Something that Pallas knows not.

[She has come to where her basket lies. In stooping towards it she kneels to pluck a flower: and then comes to sit on a bank with the basket in hand on her knees, facing the audience.]

Thou tiny flower! Art thou not wise? Who taught thee else, thou frail anemone, Thy starry notion, thy wind-wavering motion, Thy complex of chaste beauty, unimagin'd Till thou art seen?--And how so wisely, thou, Indifferent to the number of thy rays, While others are so strict? This six-leaved tulip, --He would not risk a seventh for all his worth,-- He thought to attain unique magnificence By sheer simplicity--a pointed oval Bare on a stalk erect: and yet, grown old He will his young idea quite abandon, In his dishevel'd fury wantoning Beyond belief.... Some are four-leaved: this poppy Will have but four. He, like a hurried thief, Stuffs his rich silks into too small a bag-- I think he watch'd a summer-butterfly Creep out all crumpled from his winter-case, Trusting the sun to smooth his tender tissue And sleek the velvet of his painted wings:-- And so doth he.--Between such different schemes, Such widely varied loveliness, how choose? Yet loving all, one should be most belov'd, Most intimately mine; to mortal men My emblem: tho' I never find in one The sum of all distinctions.--Rose were best: But she is passion's darling, and unkind To handle--set her by.--Choosing for odour, The violet were mine--men call her modest, Because she hides, and when in company Lacks manner and the assertive style of worth:-- While this narcissus here scorns modesty, Will stand up what she is, tho' something prim: Her scent, a saturation of one tone, Like her plain symmetry, leaves nought to fancy:-- Whereas this iris,--she outvieth man's Excellent artistry; elaboration Confounded with simplicity, till none Can tell which sprang of which. Coud I but find A scented iris, I should be content: Yet men would call me proud: Iris is Pride.-- To-day I'll favour thee, sweet violet; Thou canst live in my bosom. I'll not wrong thee Wearing thee in Olympus.--Help! help! Ay me!

[Persephone rises to her feet, and amidst a contrivance of confused darkness Hades is seen rushing from behind. He seizes her and drags her backward. Her basket is thrown up and the flowers scattered.]