| |
| O SOVEREIGN power of love! O grief! O balm! | |
| All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, | |
| And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: | |
| For others, good or bad, hatred and tears | |
| Have become indolent; but touching thine, | 5 |
| One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, | |
| One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. | |
| The woes of Troy, towers smothering o’er their blaze, | |
| Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, | |
| Struggling, and blood, and shrieks—all dimly fades | 10 |
| Into some backward corner of the brain; | |
| Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain | |
| The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. | |
| Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! | |
| Swart planet in the universe of deeds! | 15 |
| Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds | |
| Along the pebbled shore of memory! | |
| Many old rotten-timber’d boats there be | |
| Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified | |
| To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, | 20 |
| And golden keel’d, is left unlaunch’d and dry. | |
| But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly | |
| About the great Athenian admiral’s mast? | |
| What care, though striding Alexander past | |
| The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? | 25 |
| Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers | |
| The glutted Cyclops, what care?—Juliet leaning | |
| Amid her window-flowers,—sighing,—weaning | |
| Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, | |
| Doth more avail than these: the silver flow | 30 |
| Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen, | |
| Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den, | |
| Are things to brood on with more ardency | |
| Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully | |
| Must such conviction come upon his head, | 35 |
| Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, | |
| Without one muse’s smile, or kind behest, | |
| The path of love and poesy. But rest, | |
| In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear | |
| Than to be crush’d, in striving to uprear | 40 |
| Love’s standard on the battlements of song. | |
| So once more days and nights aid me along, | |
Like legion’d soldiers.
Brain-sick shepherd-prince, | |
| What promise hast thou faithful guarded since | |
| The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows | 45 |
| Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? | |
| Alas! ’tis his old grief. For many days, | |
| Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: | |
| Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks; | |
| Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes | 50 |
| Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still, | |
| Hour after hour, to each lush-leav’d rill. | |
| Now he is sitting by a shady spring, | |
| And elbow-deep with feverous fingering | |
| Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree | 55 |
| Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see | |
| A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now | |
| He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! | |
| It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; | |
| And, in the middle, there is softly pight | 60 |
| A golden butterfly; upon whose wings | |
| There must be surely character’d strange things, | |
| For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. | |
| |
| Lightly this little herald flew aloft, | |
| Follow’d by glad Endymion’s clasped hands: | 65 |
| Onward it flies. From languor’s sullen bands | |
| His limbs are loos’d, and eager, on he hies | |
| Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. | |
| It seem’d he flew, the way so easy was; | |
| And like a new-born spirit did he pass | 70 |
| Through the green evening quiet in the sun, | |
| O’er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, | |
| Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams | |
| The summer time away. One track unseams | |
| A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue | 75 |
| Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, | |
| He sinks adown a solitary glen, | |
| Where there was never sound of mortal men, | |
| Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences | |
| Melting to silence, when upon the breeze | 80 |
| Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, | |
| To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet | |
| Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, | |
| Until it reached a splashing fountain’s side | |
| That, near a cavern’s mouth, for ever pour’d | 85 |
| Unto the temperate air: then high it soar’d, | |
| And, downward, suddenly began to dip, | |
| As if, athirst with so much toil, ’twould sip | |
| The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch | |
| Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch | 90 |
| Even with mealy gold the waters clear. | |
| But, at that very touch, to disappear | |
| So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, | |
| Endymion sought around, and shook each bed | |
| Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung | 95 |
| Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, | |
| What whisperer disturb’d his gloomy rest? | |
| It was a nymph uprisen to the breast | |
| In the fountain’s pebbly margin, and she stood | |
| ’Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. | 100 |
| To him her dripping hand she softly kist, | |
| And anxiously began to plait and twist | |
| Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: “Youth! | |
| Too long, alas, hast thou starv’d on the ruth, | |
| The bitterness of love: too long indeed, | 105 |
| Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed | |
| Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer | |
| All the bright riches of my crystal coffer | |
| To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, | |
| Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, | 110 |
| Vermilion-tail’d, or finn’d with silvery gauze; | |
| Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws | |
| A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands | |
| Tawny and gold, ooz’d slowly from far lands | |
| By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, | 115 |
| My charming rod, my potent river spells; | |
| Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup | |
| Meander gave me,—for I bubbled up | |
| To fainting creatures in a desert wild. | |
| But woe is me, I am but as a child | 120 |
| To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, | |
| Is, that I pity thee; that on this day | |
| I’ve been thy guide; that thou must wander far | |
| In other regions, past the scanty bar | |
| To mortal steps, before thou cans’t be ta’en | 125 |
| From every wasting sigh, from every pain, | |
| Into the gentle bosom of thy love. | |
| Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: | |
| But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel! | |
| I have a ditty for my hollow cell.” | 130 |
| |
| Hereat, she vanished from Endymion’s gaze, | |
| Who brooded o’er the water in amaze: | |
| The dashing fount pour’d on, and where its pool | |
| Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, | |
| Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, | 135 |
| And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill | |
| Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, | |
| Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr | |
| Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; | |
| And, while beneath the evening’s sleepy frown | 140 |
| Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps, | |
| Thus breath’d he to himself: “Whoso encamps | |
| To take a fancied city of delight, | |
| O what a wretch is he! and when ’tis his, | |
| After long toil and travelling, to miss | 145 |
| The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile: | |
| Yet, for him there’s refreshment even in toil; | |
| Another city doth he set about, | |
| Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt | |
| That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: | 150 |
| Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, | |
| And onward to another city speeds. | |
| But this is human life: the war, the deeds, | |
| The disappointment, the anxiety, | |
| Imagination’s struggles, far and nigh, | 155 |
| All human; bearing in themselves this good, | |
| That they are sill the air, the subtle food, | |
| To make us feel existence, and to shew | |
| How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, | |
| Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, | 160 |
| There is no depth to strike in: I can see | |
| Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand | |
| Upon a misty, jutting head of land— | |
| Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, | |
| When mad Eurydice is listening to ’t; | 165 |
| I’d rather stand upon this misty peak, | |
| With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, | |
| But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, | |
| Than be—I care not what. O meekest dove | |
| Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! | 170 |
| From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, | |
| Glance but one little beam of temper’d light | |
| Into my bosom, that the dreadful might | |
| And tyranny of love be somewhat scar’d! | |
| Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar’d, | 175 |
| Would give a pang to jealous misery, | |
| Worse than the torment’s self: but rather tie | |
| Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out | |
| My love’s far dwelling. Though the playful rout | |
| Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, | 180 |
| Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow | |
| Not to have dipp’d in love’s most gentle stream. | |
| O be propitious, nor severely deem | |
| My madness impious; for, by all the stars | |
| That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars | 185 |
| That kept my spirit in are burst—that I | |
| Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! | |
| How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! | |
| How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep | |
| Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, | 190 |
| How lithe! When this thy chariot attains | |
| Is airy goal, haply some bower veils | |
| Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!—my spirit fails— | |
| Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air | |
| Will gulph me—help!”—At this with madden’d stare, | 195 |
| And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood; | |
| Like old Deucalion mountain’d o’er the flood, | |
| Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. | |
| And, but from the deep cavern there was borne | |
| A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone; | 200 |
| Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion’d moan | |
| Had more been heard. Thus swell’d it forth: “Descend, | |
| Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend | |
| Into the sparry hollows of the world! | |
| Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl’d | 205 |
| As from thy threshold, day by day hast been | |
| A little lower than the chilly sheen | |
| Of icy pinnacles, and dipp’dst thine arms | |
| Into the deadening ether that still charms | |
| Their marble being: now, as deep profound | 210 |
| As those are high, descend! He ne’er is crown’d | |
| With immortality, who fears to follow | |
| Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow, | |
| The silent mysteries of earth, descend!” | |
| |
| He heard but the last words, nor could contend | 215 |
| One moment in reflection: for he fled | |
| Into the fearful deep, to hide his head | |
| From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. | |
| |
| ’Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness; | |
| Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite | 220 |
| To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, | |
| The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, | |
| But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; | |
| A dusky empire and its diadems; | |
| One faint eternal eventide of gems. | 225 |
| Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, | |
| Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, | |
| With all its lines abrupt and angular: | |
| Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, | |
| Through a vast antre; then the metal woof, | 230 |
| Like Vulcan’s rainbow, with some monstrous roof | |
| Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss, | |
| It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss | |
| Fancy into belief: anon it leads | |
| Through winding passages, where sameness breeds | 235 |
| Vexing conceptions of some sudden change; | |
| Whether to silver grots, or giant range | |
| Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge | |
| Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge | |
| Now fareth he, that o’er the vast beneath | 240 |
| Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth | |
| A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come | |
| But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb | |
| His bosom grew, when first he, far away, | |
| Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray | 245 |
| Old darkness from his throne: ’twas like the sun | |
| Uprisen o’er chaos: and with such a stun | |
| Came the amazement, that, absorb’d in it, | |
| He saw not fiercer wonders—past the wit | |
| Of any spirit to tell, but one of those | 250 |
| Who, when this planet’s sphering time doth close, | |
| Will be its high remembrancers: who they? | |
| The mighty ones who have made eternal day | |
| For Greece and England. While astonishment | |
| With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went | 255 |
| Into a marble gallery, passing through | |
| A mimic temple, so complete and true | |
| In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear’d | |
| To search it inwards, whence far off appear’d, | |
| Through a long pillar’d vista, a fair shrine, | 260 |
| And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, | |
| A quiver’d Dian. Stepping awfully, | |
| The youth approach’d; oft turning his veil’d eye | |
| Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old. | |
| And when, more near against the marble cold | 265 |
| He had touch’d his forehead, he began to thread | |
| All courts and passages, where silence dead | |
| Rous’d by his whispering footsteps murmured faint: | |
| And long he travers’d to and fro, to acquaint | |
| Himself with every mystery, and awe; | 270 |
| Till, weary, he sat down before the maw | |
| Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim | |
| To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. | |
| There, when new wonders ceas’d to float before, | |
| And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore | 275 |
| The journey homeward to habitual self! | |
| A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf, | |
| Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar, | |
| Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, | |
| Into the bosom of a hated thing. | 280 |
| |
| What misery most drowningly doth sing | |
| In lone Endymion’s ear, now he has caught | |
| The goal of consciousness? Ah, ’tis the thought, | |
| The deadly feel of solitude: for lo! | |
| He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow | 285 |
| Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild | |
| In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil’d, | |
| The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, | |
| Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest | |
| Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air; | 290 |
| But far from such companionship to wear | |
| An unknown time, surcharg’d with grief, away, | |
| Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, | |
| Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? | |
| “No!” exclaimed he, “why should I tarry here?” | 295 |
| No! loudly echoed times innumerable. | |
| At which he straightway started, and ’gan tell | |
| His paces back into the temple’s chief; | |
| Warming and glowing strong in the belief | |
| Of help from Dian: so that when again | 300 |
| He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, | |
| Moving more near the while. “O Haunter chaste | |
| Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, | |
| Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen | |
| Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen, | 305 |
| What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? | |
| Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos | |
| Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree | |
| Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe’er it be, | |
| ’Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste | 310 |
| Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste | |
| Thy loveliness in dismal elements; | |
| But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, | |
| There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee | |
| It feels Elysian, how rich to me, | 315 |
| An exil’d mortal, sounds its pleasant name! | |
| Within my breast there lives a choking flame— | |
| O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs! | |
| A homeward fever parches up my tongue— | |
| O let me slake it at the running springs! | 320 |
| Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings— | |
| O let me once more hear the linnet’s note! | |
| Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float— | |
| O let me ’noint them with the heaven’s light! | |
| Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? | 325 |
| O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! | |
| Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? | |
| O think how this dry palate would rejoice! | |
| If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, | |
| Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers!— | 330 |
| Young goddess! let me see my native bowers! | |
| Deliver me from this rapacious deep!” | |
| |
| Thus ending loudly, as he would o’erleap | |
| His destiny, alert he stood: but when | |
| Obstinate silence came heavily again, | 335 |
| Feeling about for its old couch of space | |
| And airy cradle, lowly bow’d his face | |
| Desponding, o’er the marble floor’s cold thrill. | |
| But ’twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill | |
| To its old channel, or a swollen tide | 340 |
| To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, | |
| And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns | |
| Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns | |
| Itself, and strives its own delights to hide— | |
| Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride | 345 |
| In a long whispering birth enchanted grew | |
| Before his footsteps; as when heav’d anew | |
| Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, | |
| Down whose green back the short-liv’d foam, all hoar, | |
| Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. | 350 |
| |
| Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, | |
| Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; | |
| So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes | |
| One moment with his hand among the sweets: | |
| Onward he goes—he stops—his bosom beats | 355 |
| As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm | |
| Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, | |
| This sleepy music, forc’d him walk tiptoe: | |
| For it came more softly than the east could blow | |
| Arion’s magic to the Atlantic isles; | 360 |
| Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles | |
| Of thron’d Apollo, could breathe back the lyre | |
| To seas Ionian and Tyrian. | |
| |
| O did he ever live, that lonely man, | |
| Who lov’d—and music slew not? ’Tis the pest | 365 |
| Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; | |
| That things of delicate and tenderest worth | |
| Are swallow’d all, and made a seared dearth, | |
| By one consuming flame: it doth immerse | |
| And suffocate true blessings in a curse. | 370 |
| Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, | |
| Is miserable. ’Twas even so with this | |
| Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian’s ear; | |
| First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, | |
| Vanish’d in elemental passion. | 375 |
| |
| And down some swart abysm he had gone, | |
| Had not a heavenly guide benignant led | |
| To where thick myrtle branches, ’gainst his head | |
| Brushing, awakened: then the sounds again | |
| Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain | 380 |
| Over a bower, where little space he stood; | |
| For as the sunset peeps into a wood | |
| So saw he panting light, and towards it went | |
| Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment! | |
| Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, | 385 |
| Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. | |
| |
| After a thousand mazes overgone, | |
| At last, with sudden step, he came upon | |
| A chamber, myrtle wall’d, embowered high, | |
| Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, | 390 |
| And more of beautiful and strange beside: | |
| For on a silken couch of rosy pride, | |
| In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth | |
| Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, | |
| Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: | 395 |
| And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, | |
| Or ripe October’s faded marigolds, | |
| Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds— | |
| Not hiding up an Apollonian curve | |
| Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve | 400 |
| Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light; | |
| But rather, giving them to the filled sight | |
| Officiously. Sideway his face repos’d | |
| On one white arm, and tenderly unclos’d, | |
| By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth | 405 |
| To slumbery pout; just as the morning south | |
| Disparts a dew-lipp’d rose. Above his head, | |
| Four lily stalks did their white honours wed | |
| To make a coronal; and round him grew | |
| All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, | 410 |
| Together intertwin’d and trammel’d fresh: | |
| The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh, | |
| Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine, | |
| Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine; | |
| Convolvulus in streaked vases flush; | 415 |
| The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush; | |
| And virgin’s bower, trailing airily; | |
| With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, | |
| Stood serene Cupids watching silently. | |
| One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings, | 420 |
| Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; | |
| And, ever and anon, uprose to look | |
| At the youth’s slumber; while another took | |
| A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew, | |
| And shook it on his hair; another flew | 425 |
| In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise | |
| Rain’d violets upon his sleeping eyes. | |
| |
| At these enchantments, and yet many more, | |
| The breathless Latmian wonder’d o’er and o’er; | |
| Until, impatient in embarrassment, | 430 |
| He forthright pass’d, and lightly treading went | |
| To that same feather’d lyrist, who straightway, | |
| Smiling, thus whisper’d: “Though from upper day | |
| Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here | |
| Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! | 435 |
| For ’tis the nicest touch of human honour, | |
| When some ethereal and high-favouring donor | |
| Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; | |
| As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence | |
| Was I in no wise startled. So recline | 440 |
| Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, | |
| Alive with sparkles—never, I aver, | |
| Since Ariadne was a vintager, | |
| So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears, | |
| Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears | 445 |
| Were high about Pomona: here is cream, | |
| Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam; | |
| Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm’d | |
| For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm’d | |
| By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums | 450 |
| Ready to melt between an infant’s gums: | |
| And here is manna pick’d from Syrian trees, | |
| In starlight, by the three Hesperides. | |
| Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know | |
| Of all these things around us.” He did so, | 455 |
| Still brooding o’er the cadence of his lyre; | |
| And thus: “I need not any hearing tire | |
| By telling how the sea-born goddess pin’d | |
| For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind | |
| Him all in all unto her doting self. | 460 |
| Who would not be so prison’d? but, fond elf, | |
| He was content to let her amorous plea | |
| Faint through his careless arms; content to see | |
| An unseiz’d heaven dying at his feet; | |
| Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat, | 465 |
| When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, | |
| Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born | |
| Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes | |
| Were clos’d in sullen moisture, and quick sighs | |
| Came vex’d and pettish through her nostrils small. | 470 |
| Hush! no exclaim—yet, justly mightst thou call | |
| Curses upon his head.—I was half glad, | |
| But my poor mistress went distract and mad, | |
| When the boar tusk’d him: so away she flew | |
| To Jove’s high throne, and by her plainings drew | 475 |
| Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer’s beard; | |
| Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear’d | |
| Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he, | |
| That same Adonis, safe in the privacy | |
| Of this still region all his winter-sleep. | 480 |
| Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep | |
| Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower | |
| Heal’d up the wound, and, with a balmy power, | |
| Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness: | |
| The which she fills with visions, and doth dress | 485 |
| In all this quiet luxury; and hath set | |
| Us young immortals, without any let, | |
| To watch his slumber through. ’Tis well nigh pass’d, | |
| Even to a moment’s filling up, and fast | |
| She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through | 490 |
| The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew | |
| Embower’d sports in Cytherea’s isle. | |
| Look! how those winged listeners all this while | |
| Stand anxious: see! behold!”—This clamant word | |
| Broke through the careful silence; for they heard | 495 |
| A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter’d | |
| Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter’d, | |
| The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh | |
| Lay dormant, mov’d convuls’d and gradually | |
| Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum | 500 |
| Of sudden voices, echoing, “Come! come! | |
| Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk’d | |
| Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk’d | |
| Full soothingly to every nested finch: | |
| Rise, Cupids! or we’ll give the blue-bell pinch | 505 |
| To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!” | |
| At this, from every side they hurried in, | |
| Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, | |
| And doubling overhead their little fists | |
| In backward yawns. But all were soon alive: | 510 |
| For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive | |
| In nectar’d clouds and curls through water fair, | |
| So from the arbour roof down swell’d an air | |
| Odorous and enlivening; making all | |
| To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call | 515 |
| For their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed green | |
| Disparted, and far upward could be seen | |
| Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne, | |
| Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, | |
| Spun off a drizzling dew,—which falling chill | 520 |
| On soft Adonis’ shoulders, made him still | |
| Nestle and turn uneasily about. | |
| Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch’d out, | |
| And silken traces lighten’d in descent; | |
| And soon, returning from love’s banishment, | 525 |
| Queen Venus leaning downward open arm’d: | |
| Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm’d | |
| A tumult to his heart, and a new life | |
| Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, | |
| But for her comforting! unhappy sight, | 530 |
| But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write | |
| Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse | |
| To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. | |
| |
| O it has ruffled every spirit there, | |
| Saving love’s self, who stands superb to share | 535 |
| The general gladness: awfully he stands; | |
| A sovereign quell is in his waving hands; | |
| No sight can bear the lightning of his bow; | |
| His quiver is mysterious, none can know | |
| What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes | 540 |
| There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes: | |
| A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who | |
| Look full upon it feel anon the blue | |
| Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. | |
| Endymion feels it, and no more controls | 545 |
| The burning prayer within him; so, bent low, | |
| He had begun a plaining of his woe. | |
| But Venus, bending forward, said: “My child, | |
| Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild | |
| With love—he—but alas! too well I see | 550 |
| Thou know’st the deepness of his misery. | |
| Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true, | |
| That when through heavy hours I used to rue | |
| The endless sleep of this new-born Adon’, | |
| This stranger ay I pitied. For upon | 555 |
| A dreary morning once I fled away | |
| Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray | |
| For this my love: for vexing Mars had teaz’d | |
| Me even to tears: thence, when a little eas’d, | |
| Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, | 560 |
| I saw this youth as he despairing stood: | |
| Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind: | |
| Those same full fringed lids a constant blind | |
| Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw | |
| Himself on wither’d leaves, even as though | 565 |
| Death had come sudden; for no jot he mov’d, | |
| Yet mutter’d wildly. I could hear he lov’d | |
| Some fair immortal, and that his embrace | |
| Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace | |
| Of this in heaven: I have mark’d each cheek, | 570 |
| And find it is the vainest thing to seek; | |
| And that of all things ’tis kept secretest. | |
| Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest: | |
| So still obey the guiding hand that fends | |
| Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. | 575 |
| ’Tis a concealment needful in extreme; | |
| And if I guess’d not so, the sunny beam | |
| Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu! | |
| Here must we leave thee.”—At these words up flew | |
| The impatient doves, up rose the floating car, | 580 |
| Up went the hum celestial. High afar | |
| The Latmian saw them minish into nought; | |
| And, when all were clear vanish’d, still he caught | |
| A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. | |
| When all was darkened, with Etnean throe | 585 |
| The earth clos’d—gave a solitary moan— | |
| And left him once again in twilight lone. | |
| |
| He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, | |
| For all those visions were o’ergone, and past, | |
| And he in loneliness: he felt assur’d | 590 |
| Of happy times, when all he had endur’d | |
| Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. | |
| So, with unusual gladness, on he hies | |
| Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, | |
| Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor, | 595 |
| Black polish’d porticos of awful shade, | |
| And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, | |
| Leading afar past wild magnificence, | |
| Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence | |
| Stretching across a void, then guiding o’er | 600 |
| Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar, | |
| Streams subterranean tease their granite beds; | |
| Then heighten’d just above the silvery heads | |
| Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash | |
| The waters with his spear; but at the splash, | 605 |
| Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose | |
| Sudden a poplar’s height, and ’gan to enclose | |
| His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round | |
| Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound, | |
| Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells | 610 |
| Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells | |
| On this delight; for, every minute’s space, | |
| The streams with changed magic interlace: | |
| Sometimes like delicatest lattices, | |
| Cover’d with crystal vines; then weeping trees, | 615 |
| Moving about as in a gentle wind, | |
| Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin’d, | |
| Pour’d into shapes of curtain’d canopies, | |
| Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries | |
| Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. | 620 |
| Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare; | |
| And then the water, into stubborn streams | |
| Collecting, mimick’d the wrought oaken beams, | |
| Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, | |
| Of those dusk places in times far aloof | 625 |
| Cathedrals call’d. He bade a loth farewel | |
| To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell, | |
| And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, | |
| Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes, | |
| Blackening on every side, and overhead | 630 |
| A vaulted dome like Heaven’s, far bespread | |
| With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and strange, | |
| The solitary felt a hurried change | |
| Working within him into something dreary,— | |
| Vex’d like a morning eagle, lost, and weary, | 635 |
| And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds. | |
| But he revives at once: for who beholds | |
| New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough? | |
| Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, | |
| Came mother Cybele! alone—alone— | 640 |
| In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown | |
| About her majesty, and front death-pale, | |
| With turrets crown’d. Four maned lions hale | |
| The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws, | |
| Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws | 645 |
| Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails | |
| Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails | |
| This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away | |
In another gloomy arch.
Wherefore delay, | |
| Young traveller, in such a mournful place? | 650 |
| Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace | |
| The diamond path? And does it indeed end | |
| Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend | |
| Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne | |
| Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn; | 655 |
| Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost; | |
| To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost | |
| Towards him a large eagle, ’twixt whose wings, | |
| Without one impious word, himself he flings, | |
| Committed to the darkness and the gloom: | 660 |
| Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom, | |
| Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell | |
| Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel, | |
| And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath’d, | |
| Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath’d | 665 |
| So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem’d | |
| Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem’d | |
| With airs delicious. In the greenest nook | |
| The eagle landed him, and farewel took. | |
| |
| It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown | 670 |
| With golden moss. His every sense had grown | |
| Ethereal for pleasure; ’bove his head | |
| Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread | |
| Was Hesperean; to his capable ears | |
| Silence was music from the holy spheres; | 675 |
| A dewy luxury was in his eyes; | |
| The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs | |
| And stirr’d them faintly. Verdant cave and cell | |
| He wander’d through, oft wondering at such swell | |
| Of sudden exaltation: but, “Alas! | 680 |
| Said he, “will all this gush of feeling pass | |
| Away in solitude? And must they wane, | |
| Like melodies upon a sandy plain, | |
| Without an echo? Then shall I be left | |
| So sad, so melancholy, so bereft! | 685 |
| Yet still I feel immortal! O my love, | |
| My breath of life, where art thou? High above, | |
| Dancing before the morning gates of heaven? | |
| Or keeping watch among those starry seven, | |
| Old Atlas’ children? Art a maid of the waters, | 690 |
| One of shell-winding Triton’s bright-hair’d daughters? | |
| Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian’s, | |
| Weaving a coronal of tender scions | |
| For very idleness? Where’er thou art, | |
| Methinks it now is at my will to start | 695 |
| Into thine arms; to scare Aurora’s train, | |
| And snatch thee from the morning; o’er the main | |
| To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off | |
| From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff | |
| Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves. | 700 |
| No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives | |
| Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. | |
| O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee | |
| To her entrancements: hither sleep awhile! | |
| Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foil | 705 |
| For some few hours the coming solitude.” | |
| |
| Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued | |
| With power to dream deliciously; so wound | |
| Through a dim passage, searching till he found | |
| The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where | 710 |
| He threw himself, and just into the air | |
| Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! | |
| A naked waist: “Fair Cupid, whence is this?” | |
| A well-known voice sigh’d, “Sweetest, here am I!” | |
| At which soft ravishment, with doating cry | 715 |
| They trembled to each other.—Helicon! | |
| O fountain’d hill! Old Homer’s Helicon! | |
| That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o’er | |
| These sorry pages; then the verse would soar | |
| And sing above this gentle pair, like lark | 720 |
| Over his nested young: but all is dark | |
| Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount | |
| Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count | |
| Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll | |
| Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll | 725 |
| Is in Apollo’s hand: our dazed eyes | |
| Have seen a new tinge in the western skies: | |
| The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, | |
| Although the sun of poesy is set, | |
| These lovers did embrace, and we must weep | 730 |
| That there is no old power left to steep | |
| A quill immortal in their joyous tears. | |
| Long time in silence did their anxious fears | |
| Question that thus it was; long time they lay | |
| Fondling and kissing every doubt away; | 735 |
| Long time ere soft caressing sobs began | |
| To mellow into words, and then there ran | |
| Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. | |
| “O known Unknown! from whom my being sips | |
| Such darling essence, wherefore may I not | 740 |
| Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot | |
| Pillow my chin for ever? ever press | |
| These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess? | |
| Why not for ever and for ever feel | |
| That breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt steal | 745 |
| Away from me again, indeed, indeed— | |
| Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed | |
| My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! | |
| Is—is it to be so? No! Who will dare | |
| To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will, | 750 |
| Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still | |
| Let me entwine thee surer, surer—now | |
| How can we part? Elysium! who art thou? | |
| Who, that thou canst not be for ever here, | |
| Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere? | 755 |
| Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace, | |
| By the most soft completion of thy face, | |
| Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, | |
| And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties— | |
| These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, | 760 |
| The passion”————“O lov’d Ida the divine! | |
| Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me! | |
| His soul will ’scape us—O felicity! | |
| How he does love me! His poor temples beat | |
| To the very tune of love—how sweet, sweet, sweet. | 765 |
| Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die; | |
| Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by | |
| In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell | |
| Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell | |
| Its heavy pressure, and will press at least | 770 |
| My lips to thine, that they may richly feast | |
| Until we taste the life of love again. | |
| What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain! | |
| I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive; | |
| And so long absence from thee doth bereave | 775 |
| My soul of any rest: yet must I hence: | |
| Yet, can I not to starry eminence | |
| Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own | |
| Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan | |
| Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, | 780 |
| And I must blush in heaven. O that I | |
| Had done it already; that the dreadful smiles | |
| At my lost brightness, my impassion’d wiles, | |
| Had waned from Olympus’ solemn height, | |
| And from all serious Gods; that our delight | 785 |
| Was quite forgotten, save of us alone! | |
| And wherefore so ashamed? ’Tis but to atone | |
| For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes: | |
| Yet must I be a coward!—Horror rushes | |
| Too palpable before me—the sad look | 790 |
| Of Jove—Minerva’s start—no bosom shook | |
| With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion | |
| In reverence veiled—my crystaline dominion | |
| Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! | |
| But what is this to love? O I could fly | 795 |
| With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, | |
| So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, | |
| Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once | |
| That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce— | |
| Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown— | 800 |
| O I do think that I have been alone | |
| In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, | |
| While every eve saw me my hair uptying | |
| With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love, | |
| I was as vague as solitary dove, | 805 |
| Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss— | |
| Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, | |
| An immortality of passion’s thine: | |
| Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine | |
| Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade | 810 |
| Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; | |
| And I will tell thee stories of the sky, | |
| And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. | |
| My happy love will overwing all bounds! | |
| O let me melt into thee; let the sounds | 815 |
| Of our close voices marry at their birth; | |
| Let us entwine hoveringly—O dearth | |
| Of human words! roughness of mortal speech! | |
| Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach | |
| Thine honied tongue—lute-breathings, which I gasp | 820 |
| To have thee understand, now while I clasp | |
| Thee thus, and weep for fondness—I am pain’d, | |
| Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contain’d | |
| In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?”— | |
| Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife | 825 |
| Melted into a languor. He return’d | |
Entranced vows and tears.
Ye who have yearn’d | |
| With too much passion, will here stay and pity, | |
| For the mere sake of truth; as ’tis a ditty | |
| Not of these days, but long ago ’twas told | 830 |
| By a cavern wind unto a forest old; | |
| And then the forest told it in a dream | |
| To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam | |
| A poet caught as he was journeying | |
| To Phoebus’ shrine; and in it he did fling | 835 |
| His weary limbs, bathing an hour’s space, | |
| And after, straight in that inspired place | |
| He sang the story up into the air, | |
| Giving it universal freedom. There | |
| Has it been ever sounding for those ears | 840 |
| Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers | |
| Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it | |
| Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it: | |
| For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, | |
| Made fiercer by a fear lest any part | 845 |
| Should be engulphed in the eddying wind. | |
| As much as here is penn’d doth always find | |
| A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain; | |
| Anon the strange voice is upon the wane— | |
| And ’tis but echo’d from departing sound, | 850 |
| That the fair visitant at last unwound | |
| Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep.— | |
| Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. | |
| |
| Now turn we to our former chroniclers.— | |
| Endymion awoke, that grief of hers | 855 |
| Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess’d | |
| How lone he was once more, and sadly press’d | |
| His empty arms together, hung his head, | |
| And most forlorn upon that widow’d bed | |
| Sat silently. Love’s madness he had known: | 860 |
| Often with more than tortured lion’s groan | |
| Moanings had burst from him; but now that rage | |
| Had pass’d away: no longer did he wage | |
| A rough-voic’d war against the dooming stars. | |
| No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: | 865 |
| The lyre of his soul Eolian tun’d | |
| Forgot all violence, and but commun’d | |
| With melancholy thought: O he had swoon’d | |
| Drunken from pleasure’s nipple; and his love | |
| Henceforth was dove-like.—Loth was he to move | 870 |
| From the imprinted couch, and when he did, | |
| ’Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid | |
| In muffling hands. So temper’d, out he stray’d | |
| Half seeing visions that might have dismay’d | |
| Alecto’s serpents; ravishments more keen | 875 |
| Than Hermes’ pipe, when anxious he did lean | |
| Over eclipsing eyes: and at the last | |
| It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, | |
| O’er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls, | |
| And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls, | 880 |
| Of every shape and size, even to the bulk | |
| In which whales arbour close, to brood and sulk | |
| Against an endless storm. Moreover too, | |
| Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, | |
| Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder | 885 |
| Endymion sat down, and ’gan to ponder | |
| On all his life: his youth, up to the day | |
| When ’mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, | |
| He stept upon his shepherd throne: the look | |
| Of his white palace in wild forest nook, | 890 |
| And all the revels he had lorded there: | |
| Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, | |
| With every friend and fellow-woodlander— | |
| Pass’d like a dream before him. Then the spur | |
| Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans | 895 |
| To nurse the golden age ’mong shepherd clans: | |
| That wondrous night: the great Pan-festival: | |
| His sister’s sorrow; and his wanderings all, | |
| Until into the earth’s deep maw he rush’d: | |
| Then all its buried magic, till it flush’d | 900 |
| High with excessive love. “And now,” thought he, | |
| “How long must I remain in jeopardy | |
| Of blank amazements that amaze no more? | |
| Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core | |
| All other depths are shallow: essences, | 905 |
| Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, | |
| Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, | |
| And make my branches lift a golden fruit | |
| Into the bloom of heaven: other light, | |
| Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight | 910 |
| The Olympian eagle’s vision, is dark, | |
| Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark! | |
| My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; | |
| Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells | |
| Of noises far away?—list!”—Hereupon | 915 |
| He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone | |
| Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, | |
| On either side outgush’d, with misty spray, | |
| A copious spring; and both together dash’d | |
| Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash’d | 920 |
| Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, | |
| Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot | |
| Down from the ceiling’s height, pouring a noise | |
| As of some breathless racers whose hopes poize | |
| Upon the last few steps, and with spent force | 925 |
| Along the ground they took a winding course. | |
| Endymion follow’d—for it seem’d that one | |
| Ever pursued, the other strove to shun— | |
| Follow’d their languid mazes, till well nigh | |
| He had left thinking of the mystery,— | 930 |
| And was now rapt in tender hoverings | |
| Over the vanish’d bliss. Ah! what is it sings | |
| His dream away? What melodies are these? | |
| They sound as through the whispering of trees, | |
| Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear! | 935 |
| |
| “O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear | |
| Such tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why, | |
| Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that I | |
| Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, | |
| Circling about her waist, and striving how | 940 |
| To entice her to a dive! then stealing in | |
| Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. | |
| O that her shining hair was in the sun, | |
| And I distilling from it thence to run | |
| In amorous rillets down her shrinking form! | 945 |
| To linger on her lily shoulders, warm | |
| Between her kissing breasts, and every charm | |
| Touch raptur’d!—See how painfully I flow: | |
| Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. | |
| Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, | 950 |
| A happy wooer, to the flowery mead | |
| Where all that beauty snar’d me.”—“Cruel god, | |
| Desist! or my offended mistress’ nod | |
| Will stagnate all thy fountains:—tease me not | |
| With syren words—Ah, have I really got | 955 |
| Such power to madden thee? And is it true— | |
| Away, away, or I shall dearly rue | |
| My very thoughts: in mercy then away, | |
| Kindest Alpheus for should I obey | |
| My own dear will, ’twould be a deadly bane.”— | 960 |
| “O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a pain | |
| Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn | |
| And be a criminal.”—“Alas, I burn, | |
| I shudder—gentle river, get thee hence. | |
| Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense | 965 |
| Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. | |
| Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, | |
| Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave; | |
| But ever since I heedlessly did lave | |
| In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow | 970 |
| Grew strong within me: wherefore serve me so, | |
| And call it love? Alas, ’twas cruelty. | |
| Not once more did I close my happy eyes | |
| Amid the thrush’s song. Away! Avaunt! | |
| O ’twas a cruel thing.”—“Now thou dost taunt | 975 |
| So softly, Arethusa, that I think | |
| If thou wast playing on my shady brink, | |
| Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid! | |
| Stifle thine heart no more;—nor be afraid | |
| Of angry powers: there are deities | 980 |
| Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs | |
| ’Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour | |
| A dewy balm upon them!—fear no more, | |
| Sweet Arethusa! Dian’s self must feel | |
| Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal | 985 |
| Blushing into my soul, and let us fly | |
| These dreary caverns for the open sky. | |
| I will delight thee all my winding course, | |
| From the green sea up to my hidden source | |
| About Arcadian forests; and will shew | 990 |
| The channels where my coolest waters flow | |
| Through mossy rocks; where, ’mid exuberant green, | |
| I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen | |
| Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim | |
| Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim | 995 |
| Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees | |
| Buzz from their honied wings: and thou shouldst please | |
| Thyself to choose the richest, where we might | |
| Be incense-pillow’d every summer night. | |
| Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, | 1000 |
| And let us be thus comforted; unless | |
| Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream | |
| Hurry distracted from Sol’s temperate beam, | |
| And pour to death along some hungry sands.”— | |
| “What can I do, Alpheus? Dian stands | 1005 |
| Severe before me: persecuting fate! | |
| Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late | |
| A huntress free in”—At this, sudden fell | |
| Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. | |
| The Latmian listen’d, but he heard no more, | 1010 |
| Save echo, faint repeating o’er and o’er | |
| The name of Arethusa. On the verge | |
| Of that dark gulph he wept, and said: “I urge | |
| Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, | |
| By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, | 1015 |
| If thou art powerful, these lovers pains; | |
| And make them happy in some happy plains. | |
| |
| He turn’d—there was a whelming sound—he stept, | |
| There was a cooler light; and so he kept | |
| Towards it by a sandy path, and lo! | 1020 |
| More suddenly than doth a moment go, | |
| The visions of the earth were gone and fled— | |
| He saw the giant sea above his head. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
| |
