ry kind of Circe, but we are too old for
love; and of you, but we are too old for amusement. Let us rest,
Hermes, rest and sleep; perhaps dream a little, dream of the
far-away past.

[CIRCE _and_ PERSEPHONE _enter from the left_.]

PERSEPHONE [_to_ HERMES].

My mother requires so much activity of mind and body. You must not
believe that I was neglecting her. But I went forth in despair this
morning to see what I could invent, adapt, discover, as a means
of rousing her. I am stupid, I could think of nothing. I wandered
through the woods, down the glen, along the sea-shore, up the side
of the tarn and of the marsh, but I could think of nothing.

CIRCE.

And when I found Persephone she was lying, flung out among the
flowers, with bees and butterflies leaping round her in the
sunshine, and the beech-leaves singing their faint song of peace.
It was beautiful, it was like Enna--with, ah! such a difference.

PERSEPHONE.

Circe does not tell you that I was so foolish as to be in tears.
But now it seems that you have invented an occupation for Ceres?
You are so divinely ingenious.

HERMES.

I hope it may be successful.

PERSEPHONE.

Tell me what it is.

HERMES.

I have found at the back of the palace a small rural waggon, and
I have caught two ponies, with coats like grey velvet, and great
antelopes' eyes--dear little creatures. I have harnessed them, and
now I want you to sit in this cart, while I am dressed like some
herdsman of these barbarians, and lead the ponies, and we will go
together to coax Demeter out into the fields.

PERSEPHONE.

Oh! Hermes, how splendid of you. Let us fly to carry out your plan.
Circe, will you not come with us?

CIRCE.

Or shall I not rather go to prepare the mind of Demeter for an
agreeable surprise? Shall you be happy by yourselves, Kronos and
Rhea?

RHEA.

Quite happy, for we desire to sleep.

[_Exit_ CIRCE _to right_, HERMES _and_ PERSEPHONE _to left_.]

III

[_A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees,
except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over
the latter is rising the harvest moon._ PHOEBUS APOLLO _alone;
he watches the luminary for a long time in silence_.]

PHOEBUS.

Selene! sister!--since that tawny shell,
Stained by thy tears and hollowed by thy sighs,
Recalls thee still to mind--dost thou regard,
From some tumultuous covert of this woodland,
Thy whilom sphere and