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Imputes to me the growth of weed and thorn,
And asks, why scanty fruits the year adorn?
Why She, the Mother once to mortals dear,
Is now their step-dame, bitter and severe?
Why to those children was it ever given
To lift the head, and draw the soul from heaven—
Condemned at last like beasts to range the wood,
With mast and acorns for their common food?
Is this degraded life the life of man?
Nor ceased the plaint—till I at last began
To feel compassion for the world, intent
On rescuing all from such base nourishment.
And this bave I devised—that Ceres, taught
The secret of her loss, with grief distraught,
Should haste to leave, mid Ida's hills afar,
Her Phrygian Mother, and their lion car;
And, wildly wandering over land and main,
Should some faint traces of the Maid obtain,
And so encouraged on her course proceed,
To shower on all the precious boon they need;
Rich harvests to diffuse, unknown before,
And teach her dragon yoke to plough th' Actean shore.
But if to Ceres any dare betray
The name of him who stole her child away,
