48
What joy were mine that pleasant spot to view—
What joy to wander through its paths with you!"
As drops persuasion from those glowing lips,
The Maiden's soul is fired,—away she trips,
Scorning my prayers, where youth and pleasure lead,
In haste to seek that ever-verdant mead.
She trusts her sisters; and I grieve in vain!
The Nymphs, her handmaids, follow in her train.
When breaks the dewy morn, serenely bright,
While drink the violets, and the fields are white,
They roam the glades, and cull the moisten'd flowers,
Till the high sun brings on the mid-day hours.
Then sudden night prevails! the island feels
The tramp of horse-hoofs, and the clang of wheels,
And greatly trembles: none the driver knows;
On, like a deadly blast, or death itself, he goes.
Drips from his car a blighting venom down;
The streamlets fail—the grass is sere and brown!
Touched by his breath, the flowrets withering lie:
The drooping lilies shrink, the roses die.
Then, wheeling round, retire the thundering steeds;
The darkness with them, which they brought, recedes.
Light shines again but where is Proserpine?
The Goddesses—accomplished their design—
