THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE. O FOR the thousand flowers that erst did bloom In that Sicilian Valley wild, Where golden Ceres left her Child Conceal'd from all the Sons of Jove, So to elude th' inevitable doom Of Fate, and stronger Love! In vain. The grisly Monarch of the Dead, Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap Around old Ætna's smould'ring top; There, as the wandering Nymph he view'd, Awhile in blank amaze he stood Till Love to fury roused his blood. He call'd his ebon Car and Steeds of fire: They came, and with the headlong torrent's speed Down to the lily-spangled mead They bore their mighty Sire: Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took, Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook. SONNET. O THOU, to whom my heart (no longer mine) Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued ; Fair goodly frame of Nature's work divine To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good, And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth, |