Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

(SCENE-The Vale of Enna.)

PROSERPINE, VIRGINS.

Proser. Now come and sit around me,
And I'll divide the flowers, and give to each
What most becomes her beauty. What a vale
Is this of Enna! Every thing that comes
From the green earth, springs here more graciously,
And the blue day, methinks, smiles lovelier now
Than it was wont even in Sicily.

My spirit mounts as triumphing, and my heart,
In which the red blood hides, seems tumulted
By some delicious passion. Look, above,
Above: How nobly thro' the cloudless sky
The great Apollo goes-Jove's radiant son-
My father's son: and here, below, the bosom
Of the green earth is almost hid by flowers.
Who would be sad to-day! Come round, and cast
Each one her odorous heap from out her lap
Into one pile. Some we'll divide among us,
And, for the rest, we'll fling them to the Hours;
So may Aurora's path become more fair,
And we be blest in giving.

Here-This rose

(This one half-blown) shall be my Maia's portion, For that, like it, her blush is beautiful:

And this deep violet, almost as blue

As Pallas' eye, or thine, Lycimnia,

I'll give to thee, for like thyself it wears

Its sweetness, never obtruding. For this lily,
Where can it hang but at Cyane's breast?
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed,
If flowers have sense for envy :-It shall lie
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris,
Like one star on the bosom of the night.
The cowslip and the yellow primrose-they
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves,
And April hath wept o'er them, and the voice
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths,
The dirge of those young children of the year.-
But here is heart's-ease for your woes.
And now,
The honey-suckle flower I give to thee,
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane:
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou
Hast clung to me thro' every joy and sorrow;

It flourishes with its guardian's growth, as thou dost ;
And if the woodman's axe should droop the tree,
The woodbine too must perish.-Hark! what sound-
Do ye see aught?

CHORUS.

Behold, behold, Proserpina!

How hoary clouds from out the earth arise,

And wing their way towards the skies,

As they would veil the burning blush of day.

And, look, upon a rolling car,

Some fearful being from afar

Comes onward: As he moves along the ground,
A dull and subterranean sound

Companions him; and from his face doth shine,
Proclaiming him divine,

A light that darkens all the place around,

SEMICHORUS. (Cyane,)

'Tis he, 'tis he: he comes to us
From the depths of Tartarus.
For what of evil doth he roam
From his red and gloomy home,
In the centre of the world,
Where the sinful dead are hurled?
Mark him as he moves along,
Drawn by horses black and strong,
Such as may belong to Night,
'Ere she takes her morning flight.
Now the chariot stops: the god
On our grassy world hath trod:
Like a Titan steppeth he,
Yet full of his divinity.
On his mighty shoulders lie
Raven locks, and in his eye
A cruel beauty, such as none
Of us may wisely look upon.

Proser. He comes indeed. How like a god he looks! Terribly lovely-Shall I shun his eye,

Which even here looks brightly beautiful?

What a wild leopard glance he has.-I am

Jove's daughter, and shall I then deign to fly?
I will not, yet methinks, I fear to stay.
Come, let us go, Cyane.

PLUTO enters.

Pluto. Stay, oh! stay,

Proserpina, Proserpina, I come

From my Tartarean kingdom to behold you.
The brother of Love am I. I come to say,
Gently, beside the blue Sicilian stream,
How much I love you, fair Proserpina.
Think me not rude that thus at once I tell
My passion. I disarm me of all power;
And in the accents of a man I sue,

Bowing before your beauty. Brightest maid!
Let me still unpresuming-say I have

Roamed thro' the earth, where many an eye hath smil'd
In love upon me, tho' it knew me not;

But I have passed free from amongst them all,
To gaze on you alone. I might have clasped
Lovely and royal maids, and throned queens,
Sea-nymphs, or fairy shapes that glide along
Like light across the hills, or those that make
Mysterious music in the desert woods,

And shake the green leaves in the face of day,
Or lend a voice to fountains or to caves,
Or answering hush the river's sweet reproach-
Oh! I've escaped from all, to come and tell
How much I love you, sweet Proserpina.

SEMICHORUS.-(Cyane.)

Come with me, away, away,
Fair and young Proserpina,
You will die unless you flee,
Child of crowned Cybele!
Think on all your mother's love,
On every stream and pleasant grove
That you must for ever leave,
If the dark king you believe.
Think not on his eyes

of fire,

Nor his wily heart's desire;
Nor his mighty monarch tread;
Nor the locks that 'round his head
Run like wreathed snakes, and fling
A shadow o'er his eyes' glancing;
Nor the dangerous whispers, hung
Like honey, roofing o'er his tongue.
But think of all thy mother's glory-
Of her love-of every story
Of the cruel Pluto told,

And which grey Tradition old,

With all its weight of grief and crime,

Hath barr'd from out the grave of Time.

Once again I bid thee flee,

Daughter of great Cybele.

Proser. You are too harsh, Cyane!

Pluto. Oh! my love,

Fairer than the white Naiad-fairer far

Than ought on earth, and fair as ought in heaven.

[blocks in formation]

He has, Cyane; has he not.

Can the gods flatter?

Away:

Pluto. By my burning throne!

I love you, sweetest: I will make you queen
Of my great kingdom. One third of the world
Shall you reign over, my Proserpina;

And you shall rank as high as any she,

Save one, within the starry court of Jove.
Proser. Will you be true?

Pluto. I swear it. By myself!

Come then, my bride.

Proser. Speak thou again, my friend.
Speak, harsh Cyane, in a harsher voice,

And bid me not believe him. Ah! you droop
Your head in silence.

Pluto. Come, my bright queen!

Come, beautiful Proserpina, and see

The regions over which your husband reigns;

His palaces and radiant treasures, which

Mock and outstrip all fable; his great power,
Which the living own, and wandering ghosts obey,
And all the elements- -Oh! you shall sit
On my illuminated throne, and be

A Queen indeed; and round your forehead shall run
Circlets of gems, as bright as those that bind
The brows of Juno on Heaven's festal nights,
When all the Gods assemble, and bend down
In homage before Jove.

Proser. Speak out, Cyane!

Pluto. But, above all, in my heart shall you reign
Supreme, a Goddess and a Queen indeed,
Without a rival. Oh! and you shall share
My subterranean power, and sport upon
The fields Elysian, where 'midst softest sounds,
And odours springing from immortal flowers,
And mazy rivers, and eternal groves

Of bloom and beauty, the good spirits walk :
And you
shall take your station in the skies
Nearest the Queen of Heaven, and with her hold
Celestial talk, and meet Jove's tender smile
So beautiful-

Proser. Away, away, away,

Nothing but force shall ever.-Oh, away.
I'll not believe. Fool that I am to smile.
Come 'round me virgins. Am I then betrayed?
Oh! fraudful king!

Pluto. No, by this kiss, and this:

I am your own, my love; and you are mine
For ever and for ever. Weep, Cyane.

CHORUS.

[Forces off Proserpine.

They are gone-Afar, afar,
Like the shooting of a star,
See their chariot fade away.
Farewell, lost Proserpina.

Cyane is gradually transformed.)
But, oh! what frightful change is here:
Cyane, raise your eyes, and hear-
We call thee.-Vainly-on the ground
She sinks, without a single sound,
And all her garments float around.
Again, again she rises-light,
Her head is like a fountain bright,
And her glossy ringlets fall,
With a murmur musical,
O'er her shoulders like a river,
That rushes and escapes for ever
Is the fair Cyane gone?
And is this fountain left alone,
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after times repair,

With heavy heart and weeping eye,

To sing songs to her memory ?

Oh! then, farewell! and now with hearts that mourn
Deeply, to Dian's temple will we go:

But ever on this day we will return,
Constant, to mark Cyane's fountain flow;
And, haply, for among us who can know
The secrets written on the scrolls of Fate,
A day may come when we may cease our woe,
And she, redeemed at last from Pluto's hate,
Rise, in her beauty old, pure and regenerate.

C.

ON SONGS AND SONG WRITERS.

MR EDITOR, EVERY one who has dabbled in verse, must have found the difficulty of writing a tolerably satisfactory song,I mean, satisfactory even to the author himself. Most people also, whether writers of verses or not, have some remembrance of being frequently disappointed in songs which seemed good, or pleased, against their judgment, with songs which seemed bad, before they were sung. These apparent contradictions, though a little puzzling at first sight, appear to me to be perfectly susceptible of explanation. Nor is that explanation difficult, if the assumption of certain premises be allowed. Hypothesis, however, has generally more or less to do with the illustration of mysterious or contradictory phenomena; and in attempting to elucidate those I have described, I shall be under the necessity of involving some degree of reference to Remarks on the Nature of Musical Expression, and on the Progress of Poetical Style, which have had the good fortune to appear in former numbers of your Miscellany. It will first be necessary to enumerate the difficulties and requisites of song writing. Haying done this, I shall indulge myself in a few observations on well known songs, in their different classes, and on the obstacles to correct judgment on lyrical composition.

A good song may be defined to be a short piece of average metrical and poetical merit, adapted to an expressive air. It ought to possess poetical merit equal to that which other approved metrical compositions of the same length usually comprehend: it ought also to be truly lyrical, that is to say, its fitness for being vocally performed should be evident in the fact of the poetical effect of the song being heightened, rather than otherwise, by its being sung. These conditions certainly comprehend, in their performance, considerable difficulties. The song writer will be found to be limited by laws much more severe than those which are imposed upon the writer of other poetical effusions of equal length, whether apparently lyrical or confessedly not so.

The ex

pression, "apparently lyrical," I use as descriptive of poetical pieces, lyrical

in their measure, but which are not intended to be sung, and which cannot be sung without manifest injury to the effect of the composition. This phrase, however, will probably be better understood, after considering the laws to the observance of which the lyrical author is bound.

The greatest difficulty, perhaps, in the composition of a song which is intended to be sung to an expressive air, arises from the necessity that every stanza, being sung to the same air, shall embody precisely the train of sentiment or passion which the air musically expresses.

This necessity is evident, in as much as if it does not do so, a discordance between the air and the words necessarily occurs; the air conveying one description or degree of feeling, and the words another, which is destructive of lyrical effect. For perfect effect, indeed, it is necessary that the greatest strength of poetical expression in the song should be so introduced as to correspond with those bars of the music in which the musical expression is strongest. When this is not done, although no actual discordance may be evident, the song loses considerably in performance. The expression of the air in some parts is necessarily too strong for the words, and in others too weak, and vice versa.

As all lyrical music, which is expressive at all, expresses some passion or powerful feeling, by supposition inherent in and exciting the singer, lyrical music may properly be said to be essentially dramatic. A song, when performed, is a passionate "discourse" in "most eloquent music." Its language must be exclusively that of the feelings; and being so, must, if it is true that simplicity is necessary to the pathetic, be also comparatively free from every appearance of the artificial. This is a severe restriction upon the song writer, who is constantly driven by it towards common-place. This is an unfortunate dilemma. It seems to be almost undeniable, that poetical originality is becoming every day more and more dependant upon far-sought and artificial combinations of thought. Now this directly tends to render more and more difficult the original exhibition of the pure pathetic, in poetical

« PreviousContinue »