the chariot
of one who comes to slay. Then was the earth cleft open, and from it
there arose the four coal-black horses of Pluto, neighing aloud in
their eagerness, while the dark-browed god urged them on, standing
erect in his car of gold.

"'The coal-black horses rise--they rise,
O mother, mother!' low she cries--
Persephone--Persephone!
'O light, light, light!' she cries, 'farewell;
The coal-black horses wait for me.
O shade of shades, where I must dwell,
Demeter, mother, far from thee!'"[5]

In cold, strong arms Pluto seized her--in that mighty grasp that will
not be denied, and Proserpine wept childish tears as she shivered at
his icy touch, and sobbed because she had dropped the flowers she had
picked, and had never picked the flower she most desired. While still
she saw the fair light of day, the little oddly-shaped rocky hills,
the vineyards and olive groves and flowery meadows of Sicily, she did
not lose hope. Surely the King of Terrors could not steal one so
young, so happy, and so fair. She had only tasted the joy of living,
and fain she would drink deeper in the coming years. Her mother must
surely save her--her mother who had never yet failed her--her mother,
and the gods.

But ruthless as the mower whose scythe cuts down the seeded grass and
the half-opened flower and lays them in swathes on the meadow, Pluto
drove on. His iron-coloured reins were loose on the black manes of his
horses, and he urged them forward by name till the froth flew from
their mouths like the foam that the furious surf of the sea drives
before it in a storm. Across the bay and along the bank of the river
Anapus they galloped, until, at the river head, they came to the pool
of Cyane. He smote the water with his trident, and downward into the
blackness of darkness his horses passed, and Proserpine knew no more
the pleasant light of day.

"What ails her that she comes not home?
Demeter seeks her far and wide,
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam
From many a morn till eventide.
'My life, immortal though it be,
Is nought,' she cries, 'for want of thee,
Persephone--Persephone!'"

So, to the great Earth Mother came the pangs that have drawn tears of
blood from many a mortal mother's heart for a child borne off to the
Shades.

"'My life is nought for want of thee,--
Persephone! Persephone!'" ...

The cry is borne down through the ages, to echo and re-echo so lo