told you, was an exquisite poet) forthv-m began
to make an ode about the poor moths??; grief??
and, if we were to judge of his seii??Vrility by
this beautiful production, he must have been
endowed with a very tender heart. But when a
poet gets into the habit of using his reartstrings
to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon
them as much as he will, without any great pain
to himself. Accordingly, though Phoebus sang
a very sad song, he was as merry all the while
as were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt.

Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what
had become of her daughter, but was not a whit
happier than before. Her case, on the contrary,
looked more desperate than ever. As long as
Proserpina was above ground, there might have
been hopes of regaining her. But now that the
poor child was shut up within the iron gates of
the king of the mines, at the threshold of which
lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no
possibility of her ever making her escape. The
dismal Hecate, who loved to take the darkest
view of things, told Ceres that she had bettei
come with her to the cavern, and spend the resi
of her life in being miserable. Ceres answered

[[248]]

p247 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p248w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p249

v?