As the fiery source of light, From the vat it bubbling springeth, Purple, and as crystal bright; And rejoiceth all the senses, And in every sorrowing breast Poureth hope's refreshing balsam, And on life bestows new zest. But their slanting rays all feebly On our zone the sunbeams shoot; They can only tinge the foliage, But they ripen ne'er the fruit. Yet the north insists on living, And what lives will merry be; So, although the grape is wanting, We invent wine cleverly. Pale the drink we now are offering On the household altar here; But what living Nature maketh, Sparkling is and ever clear. Let us from the brimming goblet, Drain the troubled flood with mirth; Art is but a gift of heaven, Borrowed from the glow of earth. Even strength's dominions boundless     'Neath her rule obedient lie; From the old the new she fashions With creative energy. She the elements' close union Severs with her sovereign nod; With the flame upon the altar, Emulates the great sun-god. For the distant, happy islands Now the vessel sallies forth, And the southern fruits, all-golden, Pours upon the eager north. As a type, then,—as an image, Be to us this fiery juice, Of the wonders that frail mortals Can with steadfast will produce! 

        THE COMPLAINT OF CERES. 29 Does pleasant spring return once more? Does earth her happy youth regain? Sweet suns green hills are shining o'er; Soft brooklets burst their icy chain:    Upon the blue translucent river Laughs down an all-unclouded day, The winged west winds gently quiver, The buds are bursting from the spray; While birds are blithe on every tree; The Oread from the mountain-shore Sighs, "Lo! thy flowers come back to thee—     Thy child, sad mother, comes no more!"     Alas! how long an age it seems Since all the earth I wandered over, And vainly, Titan, tasked thy beams The loved—the lost one—to discover! Though all may seek—yet none can call Her tender presence back to me The sun, with eyes detecting all, Is blind one vanished form to see. Hast thou, O Zeus! hast thou away From these sad arms my daughter torn? Has Pluto, from the realms of day, Enamored—to dark rivers borne? Who to the dismal phantom-strand The herald of my grief will venture? The boat forever leaves the land, But only shadows there may enter.—    Veiled from each holier eye repose The realms where midnight wraps the dead, And, while the Stygian river flows, No living footstep there may tread! A thousand pathways wind the drear Descent;—none upward lead to-day;—    No witness to the 

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