There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling
ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were
like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so
exceedingly vivid that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering
that he ought to wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this was the very
person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making
its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most
exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, besides a great
many other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his
admirable poetry.
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phoebus smiled on
them so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss,
and Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres,
she was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether
Phoebus smiled or frowned.
"Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to you
for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child
Proserpina?"
"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phoebus,
endeavouring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of
pleasant ideas in his mind that he was apt to forget what had happened
no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very
lovely child, indeed.
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