But season-bringing Ceres, bright of gifts,
Was loth to sit upon the shining couch;
But speechless stood, with her fair downcast eyes,
Till the discreet Iambe placed a stool

Firm-join'd, and o'er it cast a white-woven fleece:
There sitting, with her hands she round her drew
The veil: long speechless she afflicted sate
Upon the stool; unoccupied by word

Or act, without a smile, her lips untouch'd
By food or beverage, pining with desire

Of her full-bosom'd daughter, sad she sate:
Till the discreet Iambe, chiding her

With many railleries, turn'd the chaste dread queen
To smiles and laughter, and a chearful mind,

And from that hour with winning manners charm'd.
Then Metanira, filling to the brim

A cup with luscious wine, presented it;
But she refused; and said within herself,
To drink the red wine were unlawful yet:
But bade them mix a liquor for her drink
Of meal and water, and the pounded herb:
She the mix'd beverage, as commanded, brought;
The Goddess, much revered, took of her own.*
Then Metanira elegantly-zoned

Thus greeted her: " Hail lady! for I deem

Thou dost not spring from base, but noble, parents;
Since in thine eyes a grace and modesty

Shine forth, as of a law-dispensing prince.

Th' allotments of the Deities mankind,

Though grieving, needs must bear, and feel the yoke.
But since thou art come hither, all of good

I have is thine. Rear only this my son,

Whom late of birth, unhoped for, the immortals
Have sent me, and he is most precious to me.

If thou should'st rear him up, and he attain
His youth's maturity, all of thy sex
May envy; such thy nurture's recompense."

To her then Ceres of the wreathed hair:
"And thou, O lady! hail-and may the Gods
Shower down their bounties on thee: willingly
I undertake thy son, and will uprear

As bidden. Not, I trust, a nurse unskill'd,

That aught of charm or scathe should hurt the boy.
I know a sovereign antidote: I know

An amulet, 'gainst incantations proof."

Thus having said, in her immortal hands
Received, she laid him in her balmy breast.
The mother's heart was glad: and so she rear'd
Wise Celeus' goodly son, Demophoön,
Whom Metanira, shaped in beauty, bare
Within the mansion. He in stature throve
As though he were a god; nor eating corn
Nor sucking at the breast. For Ceres bathed
His limbs in oil ambrosial, like a child
Of Deity, and sweetly breathed on him,
And foster'd in her breast. By night she hid
The infant, as he were a brand, within

* Those who assisted in the Eleusinian rites first fasted, and then partook of a potion similar to that here described.

The strength of circling fire: tho' unperceiv'd
Of its own parents. But to them he seem'd
A prodigy, of godlike-vigorous growth.

And she had made him proof 'gainst age and death
But that the beauteous Metanira, fond,

Lay on the watch by night, and stole a glance

From forth her perfumed bed, and shriek'd, and smote
Upon her thigh, affrighted for her son;

And drew her breath in strong indignant fear,
And loud bewailing utter'd these wing'd words:
"O! son, Demophoön! our guest has hid thee
Amidst much fire; grief, care, and woe to me!"
She spoke in lamentation and was heard
By Ceres, holy Goddess, who, incensed,
The darling son, that she unhoped had borne
Within the mansion, snatching from the fire
With her immortal hands, laid on the earth;
Chafed grievously in spirit, and address'd
Fair Metanira: "Ignorant and rash,
Ye sons of men! of good or ill to come
Alike unconscious!-thou too folly-struck

Hast wrought thy harm: for, bear me witness, Styx!
The unrelenting river! I had made

Thy darling son superior to decay,

Immortal, and had crown'd with fadeless glory;
But now he may not 'scape the Fates and Death:
Yet is imperishable honour his,

For that he rested on these knees, and slept
Within mine arms. But, when the times are ripe,
And years roll round, Eleusis' sons shall wage
Grave battle with him, striving all his days.
I am the honour'd Ceres, who bring joy
And gain to mortals and immortal Gods.
Come therefore; let thy people build me up
A temple, and an altar underneath,
Below the city and the lofty wall,
Upon the beetling cliff, that overhangs
The fount Callichorus: myself will teach
The orgies, that, in time to come, with dues
Of sacrifice ye may appease my mind."

So spake the Goddess; and at once transform'd,
Changed both her shape and stature: her old age
Cast off, around and round her beauty breathed;
Ravishing odour from her perfumed robes
Was scatter'd, and a light shone far and wide
From her immortal body, and her locks

Stream'd yellow o'er her shoulders: splendour fill'd
The solid mansion as with lightning gleam;

So pass'd she through the portal. She-her knees
Sinking beneath her, long was reft of voice;
Nor yet remember'd from the floor to raise
Her little one, the boy, the late-born babe :
His sisters listening caught his plaintive cry,

And from their well-spread couches leap'd; while one,
Lifting the infant in her hands, laid close

Within her bosom, and another waked

Th' extinguish'd fire; a third with delicate feet

Hurried to rouse the mother where she lay

Faint on her perfumed couch. Then thronging round They bathed the panting babe, most lovingly

Embracing him: but he was little soothed:

Inferior nurses held him now in charge.

They through the live-long night appeased the Goddess,
In this their consternation: with the dawn
To potent Celeus they the truth rehearsed,
And hest of wreathed Ceres. He convoked
The skilful people, and enjoin'd them rear
A temple rich, and altar on the height.
Strait they obey'd; and rear'd, as he had said,
The temple, and it rose by heaven's decree.

But when the work was done, and they had ceased
From toil, they each departed to his home.
But yellow-tressed Ceres, sitting there
Apart from all celestials, unremoved

Remain'd, still pining for the deep-zoned maid.
But grievous o'er the many-feeding earth,
And harsh to man she made the year: the soil
Sprang with no seed; wreath'd Ceres hid it deep;
And many a crooked plough yoked steers in vain
Dragg'd through the fallows; the white barley fell,
Laid flat with earth, and smitten in the ear;
And the whole race of speech articulate
Had surely perish'd by a famine sore,
And of the glorious tribute of their fruits
And victims disappointed those in heaven,
But Jove perceived, and ponder'd in his mind.
Then first he Iris sent, the golden-wing'd,
To summon fair-hair'd Ceres' lovely presence.
He spoke, and she obey'd cloud-darkening Jove,
And swift with running foot-steps clear'd the space
Between; approach'd Eleusis' odorous streets,
And found the blue-veil'd Ceres in her fane;
And calling to her, greeted with wing'd words:
"Ceres! the God, whose knowledge faileth not,
Calls thee, and bids thee join th' immortal tribe.
Come, therefore, lest the word of Jove, which I
Impart to thee, be frustrate." So beseeching
She spake; but unpersuaded was her mind.
Again the Father of the blessed Gods,
Existing ever, used the embassy

Of all: and, one the other following, each
Call'd her, and many goodliest gifts bestow'd,
And honours proffer'd, whatsoe'er she would,
Among immortals: yet not one could sway
Her thought or purpose, so in soul incensed,
But sternly she their speeches bland refused.
Not once, she said, would she with due feet climb
Fragrant Olympus, nor the fruits of earth

Release, till with her eyes she should behold

The comely visage of her daughter lost.

This when wide-glancing Jove, deep-thundering, heard,
He sent the herald with the golden rod
To Erebus, to move with melting words
The God of hell, if so he might lead back
From gulf of murky darkness into light,
Among the Gods, the spotless Proserpine;
That her own mother might again behold her,
And lay her wrath aside. Nor disobey'd
Hermes, but with a rush descended swift
Under th' abysses from his seat in heaven.
That king he found within his halls, reclined
Upon a couch, his modest spouse beside,
But sore reluctant through her mother's longing.

Still, under her intolerable grief,

She held high counsel on the things of Gods.
The gallant Argus-slaying messenger

Drew nigh, and him accosted: "Blue-hair'd Dis!
Lord of the ghosts departed, Jove, my sire,
Commands me bring the noble Proserpine
Back from th' abyss of Erebus, to heaven;
That her own mother, looking on her eyes,
May pause from that dread anger which she bears,
Resentful, 'gainst immortals; for she plans
A mighty deed: to waste the feeble race
Of earth-sprung men, hiding the glebous seed,
And minisking the tribute to the Gods.
She holds her heinous anger, nor consorts
With Deities, but sits apart, within
Her incense-smoking fane in steep Eleusis."
He spoke; the monarch of the dead relax'd
His brow in smiles, obeying Jove's behest.
Instant he urged his prudent spouse: Away!
My Proserpine! go to thy mother back,
Who veils herself in sables, and take with thee
A gentle mind and temper, nor in vain
Grieve without measure. Not amidst the Gods
Am I so base a husband, since allied

To Jove thy father. When thou hither comest,
Whatever lives and moves shall own thee queen:
And 'midst immortal honours greatest thine.
To thee the punishment of souls unjust
Shall to all time belong, and those who fail
To soothe thee with just rites and presents due."
He said; the prudent Proserpine rejoiced,
And sudden sprang with glee. He gave her then,
To chew, a honey-sweet pomegranate-seed,
Thus to himself attracting her; lest there
With her chaste dark-veil'd mother she should stay
Through all her future days. Imperial Dis
To golden chariot yoked th' immortal steeds;
She climb'd the car; brave Hermes at her side,
Seizing the reins and scourge into his grasp,
Drove them from out the palace: prompt they flew,
And swift achieved their journey's lengthening way:
Nor sea, nor river-wave, nor grassy vales,
Nor steepy heights restrain'd the rushing tramp
Of those immortal coursers: o'er them all

They pass'd, and flying cut the deepening gloom.
He drove them on, and stopp'd, where still remain'd
The crowned Ceres by her odorous fane.

She, when she saw, sprang forward, as the wild

Hill-nymph of Bacchus cleaves the shadowy wood.

The corruptions in the copy of this hymn are nuts to the commentators; those clarissimi, as they say of each other, who seldom make but they mar. Not satisfied with rectifying palpable errors, they must be meddling when there is nothing to mend. Such is the intoxication of success! On this spirited comparison Ruhnken remarks: "Angry and frantic persons are often compared with Bacchanals. But who in his senses would assimilate to a Bacchanal a mother exulting at the sight of her daughter, whom she thought lost?"-He then directs us, in the Bentleian style, to replace Koupas, a fawn, in the room of Manas, a Bacchic priestess. Now, to say nothing of the whole tenour of the narrative having witnessed to the " angry and frantic" feelings of Ceres, who "in his senses" would compare the mother to a fawn 2-The similitude is surely better suited to the daughter: and what resemblance is there between the velocity of a frightened fawn, and the forward eagerness and impetuosity of an agitated mother?— I give my vote for the Bacchanal.

THE OLD WHITE HAT-AND THE OLD GREY MARE.