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John keats

John Keats



There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be—
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at’s back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow’d his nose
To the north.


There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry—
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm—
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one’s nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one’s nose
To the north!


There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny—good—
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller’s thumb,
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby’s
Little fingers—
O he made
’Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle—
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!


There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see—
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England—
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder’d,
He wonder’d,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder’d.

                         Book II

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.

     When I have fears that I may cease to be
         Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
     Before high-piled books, in charactery,
         Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
     When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
         Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
     And think that I may never live to trace
         Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
     And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
         That I shall never look upon thee more,
     Never have relish in the faery power
         Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
     Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again:
E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
E’en then my soul with exultation dances
For that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender
I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—
A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare
To turn my admiration, though unpossess’d
They be of what is worthy,—though not drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;
These lures I straight forget—e’en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e’er forget so fair a being?
Who can forget her half retiring sweets?
God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
For man’s protection. Surely the All-seeing,
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who intreats
Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
One’s thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near;
Had I e’er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o’er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,
And I have thought it died of grieving;
O what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving:
Sweet little red feet! Why would you die?
Why would you leave me, sweet bird, why?
You liv’d alone on the forest tree,
Why, pretty thing, could you not live with me?
I kiss’d you oft, and gave you white pease;
Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turn’d to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

A whole long month of May in this sad plight
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:
“To morrow will I bow to my delight,
”To-morrow will I ask my lady’s boon."—
“O may I never see another night,
”Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune."—
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek
Fell sick within the rose’s just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek
By every lull to cool her infant’s pain:
“How ill she is,” said he, “I may not speak,
”And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:
“If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,
”And at the least 'twill startle off her cares."

So said he one fair morning, and all day
His heart beat awfully against his side;
And to his heart he inwardly did pray
For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide
Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away—
Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride,
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

So once more he had wak’d and anguished
A dreary night of love and misery,
If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed
To every symbol on his forehead high;
She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly,
“Lorenzo!”—here she ceas’d her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.

“O Isabella, I can half perceive
”That I may speak my grief into thine ear;
“If thou didst ever any thing believe,
”Believe how I love thee, believe how near
“My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve
”Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
“Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live
”Another night, and not my passion shrive.

“Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
”Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,
“And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
”In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time."
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme:
Great bliss was with them, and great happiness
Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress.

Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air,
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
Only to meet again more close, and share
The inward fragrance of each other’s heart.
She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart;
He with light steps went up a western hill,
And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill.

All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.
Ah! better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be—
Too many tears for lovers have been shed,
Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
Too much of pity after they are dead,
Too many doleful stories do we see,
Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;
Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse
Over the pathless waves towards him bows.

But, for the general award of love,
The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
And Isabella’s was a great distress,
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less—
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandize,
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,
And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes
Many all day in dazzling river stood,
To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark;
For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:
Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts
Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?—
Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?—
Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?—
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,
Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies,
The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired
And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies—
Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,—
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.

How was it these same ledger-men could spy
Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye
A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt’s pest
Into their vision covetous and sly!
How could these money-bags see east and west?—
Yet so they did—and every dealer fair
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!
Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,
And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune,
For venturing syllables that ill beseem
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet:
But it is done—succeed the verse or fail—
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.

These brethren having found by many signs
What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad
That he, the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad,
When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees
To some high noble and his olive-trees.

And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone,
Before they fix’d upon a surest way
To make the youngster for his crime atone;
And at the last, these men of cruel clay
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;
For they resolved in some forest dim
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent
Their footing through the dews; and to him said,
“You seem there in the quiet of content,
”Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade
“Calm speculation; but if you are wise,
”Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.

“To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
”To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;
“Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
”His dewy rosary on the eglantine."
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,
Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine;
And went in haste, to get in readiness,
With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress.

And as he to the court-yard pass’d along,
Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft
If he could hear his lady’s matin-song,
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;
And as he thus over his passion hung,
He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
When, looking up, he saw her features bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.

“Love, Isabel!” said he, “I was in pain
”Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow:
“Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain
”I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow
“Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain
”Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.
“Good bye! I’ll soon be back.”—"Good bye!" said she:—
And as he went she chanted merrily.

So the two brothers and their murder’d man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream
Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan
The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo’s flush with love.—They pass’d the water
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,
There in that forest did his great love cease;
Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:
They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
Each richer by his being a murderer.

They told their sister how, with sudden speed,
Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands,
Because of some great urgency and need
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed,
And 'scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands;
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,
And the next day will be a day of sorrow.

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;
Sorely she wept until the night came on,
And then, instead of love, O misery!
She brooded o’er the luxury alone:
His image in the dusk she seem’d to see,
And to the silence made a gentle moan,
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
And on her couch low murmuring, “Where? O where?”

But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long
Its fiery vigil in her single breast;
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
Upon the time with feverish unrest—
Not long—for soon into her heart a throng
Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,
And sorrow for her love in travels rude.

In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
The breath of Winter comes from far away,
And the sick west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves,
To make all bare before he dares to stray
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel
By gradual decay from beauty fell,

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes
She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale,
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes
Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes
Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale;
And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.

And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
But for a thing more deadly dark than all;
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,
Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall
For some few gasping moments; like a lance,
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall
With cruel pierce, and bringing him again
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.

It was a vision.—In the drowsy gloom,
The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot
Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
Had marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears
Had made a miry channel for his tears.

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,
To speak as when on earth it was awake,
And Isabella on its music hung:
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung;
And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song,
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof
From the poor girl by magic of their light,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darken’d time,—the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof
In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.

Saying moreover, “Isabel, my sweet!
”Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
“And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
”Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
“Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
”Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
“Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
”And it shall comfort me within the tomb.

“I am a shadow now, alas! alas!
”Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling
“Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,
”While little sounds of life are round me knelling,
“And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
”And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
“Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,
”And thou art distant in Humanity.

“I know what was, I feel full well what is,
”And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;
“Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
”That paleness warms my grave, as though I had
“A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss
”To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad;
“Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel
”A greater love through all my essence steal."

The Spirit mourn’d “Adieu!”—dissolv’d, and left
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache,
And in the dawn she started up awake;

“Ha! ha!” said she, “I knew not this hard life,
”I thought the worst was simple misery;
“I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
”Portion’d us—happy days, or else to die;
“But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife!
”Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy:
“I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
”And greet thee morn and even in the skies."

When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie;
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
And sing to it one latest lullaby;
How her short absence might be unsurmised,
While she the inmost of the dream would try.
Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

See, as they creep along the river side,
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.—"What feverous hectic flame
“Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide,
”That thou should’st smile again?"—The evening came,
And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.

Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
To see skull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole;
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr’d,
And filling it once more with human soul?
Ah! this is holiday to what was felt
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.

She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow,
Like to a native lily of the dell:
Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
To dig more fervently than misers can.

Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies,
She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone,
And put it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries:
Then 'gan she work again; nor stay’d her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core
At sight of such a dismal labouring,
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:
Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And Isabella did not stamp and rave.

Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?
Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
O for the gentleness of old Romance,
The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song!
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
For here, in truth, it doth not well belong
To speak:—O turn thee to the very tale,
And taste the music of that vision pale.

With duller steel than the Persèan sword
They cut away no formless monster’s head,
But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d.
'Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned.

In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel:
She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb,
And all around each eye’s sepulchral cell
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drench’d away:—and still she comb’d, and kept
Sighing all day—and still she kiss’d, and wept.

Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,—
She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.

And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew
Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
From the fast mouldering head there shut from view:
So that the jewel, safely casketed,
Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.

O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!
Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
And touch the strings into a mystery;
Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;
For simple Isabel is soon to be
Among the dead: She withers, like a palm
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.

O leave the palm to wither by itself;
Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—
It may not be—those Baalites of pelf,
Her brethren, noted the continual shower
From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,
Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside
By one mark’d out to be a Noble’s bride.

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,
And why it flourish’d, as by magic touch;
Greatly they wonder’d what the thing might mean:
They could not surely give belief, that such
A very nothing would have power to wean
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,
And even remembrance of her love’s delay.

Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift
This hidden whim; and long they watch’d in vain;
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;
And when she left, she hurried back, as swift
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again;
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.

Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot,
And to examine it in secret place:
The thing was vile with green and livid spot,
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face:
The guerdon of their murder they had got,
And so left Florence in a moment’s space,
Never to turn again.—Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banishment.

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, on some other day,
From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
Spirits of grief, sing not your “Well-a-way!”
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet.

Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously:
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
To ask him where her Basil was; and why
'Twas hid from her: “For cruel 'tis,” said she,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast.
And a sad ditty of this story born
From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d:
Still is the burthen sung—"O cruelty,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me!”

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;—
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:—
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo’s garland:—yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry’d in vain,
“Come hither, Sister of the Island!” Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:—still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know’st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit’s wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:—nor can I now—so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.——

  “Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air—let me but die at home.”

  Endymion to heaven’s airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach’d him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.

  “Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden’d spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet
That I may worship them? No eyelids meet
To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes
Redemption sparkles!—I am sad and lost.”

  Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air,
Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear
A woman’s sigh alone and in distress?
See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless?
Phoebe is fairer far—O gaze no more:—
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty’s store,
Behold her panting in the forest grass!
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass
For tenderness the arms so idly lain
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain,
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
After some warm delight, that seems to perch
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond
Their upper lids?—Hist!             “O for Hermes’ wand
To touch this flower into human shape!
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape
From his green prison, and here kneeling down
Call me his queen, his second life’s fair crown!
Ah me, how I could love!—My soul doth melt
For the unhappy youth—Love! I have felt
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,
That but for tears my life had fled away!—
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
There is no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love: there’s not a sound,
Melodious howsoever, can confound
The heavens and earth in one to such a death
As doth the voice of love: there’s not a breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
Of passion from the heart!”—

                              Upon a bough
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now
Thirst for another love: O impious,
That he can even dream upon it thus!—
Thought he, “Why am I not as are the dead,
Since to a woe like this I have been led
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?
Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee
By Juno’s smile I turn not—no, no, no—
While the great waters are at ebb and flow.—
I have a triple soul! O fond pretence—
For both, for both my love is so immense,
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.”

  And so he groan’d, as one by beauty slain.
The lady’s heart beat quick, and he could see
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.
He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,
Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.
“Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I
Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity!
O pardon me, for I am full of grief—
Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith
I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith
Thou art my executioner, and I feel
Loving and hatred, misery and weal,
Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
And all my story that much passion slew me;
Do smile upon the evening of my days:
And, for my tortur’d brain begins to craze,
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.—
Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.
Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament
Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern’d earth
Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst
To meet oblivion.”—As her heart would burst
The maiden sobb’d awhile, and then replied:
“Why must such desolation betide
As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks
Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks
Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,
Schooling its half-fledg’d little ones to brush
About the dewy forest, whisper tales?—
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails
Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt,
Methinks 'twould be a guilt—a very guilt—
Not to companion thee, and sigh away
The light—the dusk—the dark—till break of day!”
“Dear lady,” said Endymion, “'tis past:
I love thee! and my days can never last.
That I may pass in patience still speak:
Let me have music dying, and I seek
No more delight—I bid adieu to all.
Didst thou not after other climates call,
And murmur about Indian streams?”—Then she,
Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,
For pity sang this roundelay—

          “O Sorrow,
          Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—
          To give maiden blushes
          To the white rose bushes?
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

          ”O Sorrow,
          Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—
          To give the glow-worm light?
          Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?

          “O Sorrow,
          Why dost borrow
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—
          To give at evening pale
          Unto the nightingale,
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

          ”O Sorrow,
          Why dost borrow
Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?—
          A lover would not tread
          A cowslip on the head,
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—
          Nor any drooping flower
          Held sacred for thy bower,
Wherever he may sport himself and play.

          “To Sorrow
          I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
          But cheerly, cheerly,
          She loves me dearly;
She is so constant to me, and so kind:
          I would deceive her
          And so leave her,
But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

”Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept,—
          And so I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
          Cold as my fears.

“Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a weeping: what enamour’d bride,
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
        But hides and shrouds
Beneath dark palm trees by a river side?

”And as I sat, over the light blue hills
There came a noise of revellers: the rills
Into the wide stream came of purple hue—
        ‘Twas Bacchus and his crew!
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
From kissing cymbals made a merry din—
        ’Twas Bacchus and his kin!
Like to a moving vintage down they came,
Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame;
All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,
        To scare thee, Melancholy!
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly
By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,
Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:—
        I rush’d into the folly!

“Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,
        With sidelong laughing;
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white
        For Venus’ pearly bite;
And near him rode Silenus on his ass,
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass
        Tipsily quaffing.

”Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!
So many, and so many, and such glee?
Why have ye left your bowers desolate,
        Your lutes, and gentler fate?—
‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing?
        A conquering!
Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:—
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
        To our wild minstrelsy!'

“Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!
So many, and so many, and such glee?
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left
        Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?—
‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,
        And cold mushrooms;
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;
Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!—
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
To our mad minstrelsy!'

”Over wide streams and mountains great we went,
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,
        With Asian elephants:
Onward these myriads—with song and dance,
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance,
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil:
With toying oars and silken sails they glide,
        Nor care for wind and tide.

“Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,
From rear to van they scour about the plains;
A three days’ journey in a moment done:
And always, at the rising of the sun,
About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,
        On spleenful unicorn.

”I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
        Before the vine-wreath crown!
I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and sing
        To the silver cymbals’ ring!
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce
        Old Tartary the fierce!
The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail,
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,
        And all his priesthood moans;
Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.—
Into these regions came I following him,
Sick hearted, weary—so I took a whim
To stray away into these forests drear
        Alone, without a peer:
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

          “Young stranger!
          I’ve been a ranger
In search of pleasure throughout every clime:
          Alas! 'tis not for me!
          Bewitch’d I sure must be,
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

          ”Come then, Sorrow!
          Sweetest Sorrow!
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
          I thought to leave thee
          And deceive thee,
But now of all the world I love thee best.

          “There is not one,
          No, no, not one
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
          Thou art her mother,
          And her brother,
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.”

  O what a sigh she gave in finishing,
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;
And listened to the wind that now did stir
About the crisped oaks full drearily,
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be
Remember’d from its velvet summer song.
At last he said: “Poor lady, how thus long
Have I been able to endure that voice?
Fair Melody! kind Syren! I’ve no choice;
I must be thy sad servant evermore:
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.
Alas, I must not think—by Phoebe, no!
Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?
O thou could’st foster me beyond the brink
Of recollection! make my watchful care
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!
Do gently murder half my soul, and I
Shall feel the other half so utterly!—
I’m giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;
O let it blush so ever! let it soothe
My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm
With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.—
This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;
And this is sure thine other softling—this
Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!
Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!
And whisper one sweet word that I may know
This is this world—sweet dewy blossom!”—Woe!
Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?—
Even these words went echoing dismally
Through the wide forest—a most fearful tone,
Like one repenting in his latest moan;
And while it died away a shade pass’d by,
As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly
Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth
Their timid necks and tremble; so these both
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so
Waiting for some destruction—when lo,
Foot-feather’d Mercury appear’d sublime
Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt
Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt
One moment from his home: only the sward
He with his wand light touch’d, and heavenward
Swifter than sight was gone—even before
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear
Above the crystal circlings white and clear;
And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise—
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,
Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.
The youth of Caria plac’d the lovely dame
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame
The other’s fierceness. Through the air they flew,
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew
Exhal’d to Phoebus’ lips, away they are gone,
Far from the earth away—unseen, alone,
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,
The buoyant life of song can floating be
Above their heads, and follow them untir’d.—
Muse of my native land, am I inspir’d?
This is the giddy air, and I must spread
Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance
Precipitous: I have beneath my glance
Those towering horses and their mournful freight.
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?—
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade
From some approaching wonder, and behold
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold
Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,
Dying to embers from their native fire!

  There curl’d a purple mist around them; soon,
It seem’d as when around the pale new moon
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.
For the first time, since he came nigh dead born
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn
Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,
He felt aloof the day and morning’s prime—
Because into his depth Cimmerian
There came a dream, shewing how a young man,
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,
Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win
An immortality, and how espouse
Jove’s daughter, and be reckon’d of his house.
Now was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate,
That he might at the threshold one hour wait
To hear the marriage melodies, and then
Sink downward to his dusky cave again.
His litter of smooth semilucent mist,
Diversely ting’d with rose and amethyst,
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;
And scarcely for one moment could be caught
His sluggish form reposing motionless.
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress
Of vision search’d for him, as one would look
Athwart the sallows of a river nook
To catch a glance at silver throated eels,—
Or from old Skiddaw’s top, when fog conceals
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale
Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.

  These raven horses, though they foster’d are
Of earth’s splenetic fire, dully drop
Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,—
And on those pinions, level in mid air,
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks
On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks
To divine powers: from his hand full fain
Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain:
He tries the nerve of Phoebus’ golden bow,
And asketh where the golden apples grow:
Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield,
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield
A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings
A full-brimm’d goblet, dances lightly, sings
And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.
He blows a bugle,—an ethereal band
Are visible above: the Seasons four,—
Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store
In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar,
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,
In swells unmitigated, still doth last
To sway their floating morris. “Whose is this?
Whose bugle?” he inquires: they smile—"O Dis!
Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know
Its mistress’ lips? Not thou?—'Tis Dian’s: lo!
She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she,
His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,
And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;
Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring
Towards her, and awakes—and, strange, o’erhead,
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
Too well awake, he feels the panting side
Of his delicious lady. He who died
For soaring too audacious in the sun,
Where that same treacherous wax began to run,
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
To that fair shadow’d passion puls’d its way—
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,
He could not help but kiss her: then he grew
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save
Young Phoebe’s, golden hair’d; and so 'gan crave
Forgiveness: yet he turn’d once more to look
At the sweet sleeper,—all his soul was shook,—
She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more
He could not help but kiss her and adore.
At this the shadow wept, melting away.
The Latmian started up: "Bright goddess, stay!
Search my most hidden breast! By truth’s own tongue,
I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung
To desperation? Is there nought for me,
Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?"

  These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses:
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses
With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath.
“Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe
This murky phantasm! thou contented seem’st
Pillow’d in lovely idleness, nor dream’st
What horrors may discomfort thee and me.
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery!—
Yet did she merely weep—her gentle soul
Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole
In tenderness, would I were whole in love!
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,
Even when I feel as true as innocence?
I do, I do.—What is this soul then? Whence
Came it? It does not seem my own, and I
Have no self-passion or identity.
Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?
By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit
Alone about the dark—Forgive me, sweet:
Shall we away?” He rous’d the steeds: they beat
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,
Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.

  The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange—
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,
So witless of their doom, that verily
'Tis well nigh past man’s search their hearts to see;
Whether they wept, or laugh’d, or griev’d, or toy’d—
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy’d.

  Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,
The moon put forth a little diamond peak,
No bigger than an unobserved star,
Or tiny point of fairy scymetar;
Bright signal that she only stoop’d to tie
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
She bow’d into the heavens her timid head.
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,
While to his lady meek the Carian turn’d,
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern’d
This beauty in its birth—Despair! despair!
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz’d her wrist;
It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss’d,
And, horror! kiss’d his own—he was alone.
Her steed a little higher soar’d, and then
Dropt hawkwise to the earth.        There lies a den,
Beyond the seeming confines of the space
Made for the soul to wander in and trace
Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart:
And in these regions many a venom’d dart
At random flies; they are the proper home
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear
No sound so loud as when on curtain’d bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.
Just when the sufferer begins to burn,
Then it is free to him; and from an urn,
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught—
Young Semele such richness never quaft
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom!
Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom
Of health by due; where silence dreariest
Is most articulate; where hopes infest;
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.
O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian!
For, never since thy griefs and woes began,
Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud
Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude.
Aye, his lull’d soul was there, although upborne
With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn
Because he knew not whither he was going.
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.
They stung the feather’d horse: with fierce alarm
He flapp’d towards the sound. Alas, no charm
Could lift Endymion’s head, or he had view’d
A skyey mask, a pinion’d multitude,—
And silvery was its passing: voices sweet
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,
While past the vision went in bright array.

  “Who, who from Dian’s feast would be away?
For all the golden bowers of the day
Are empty left? Who, who away would be
From Cynthia’s wedding and festivity?
Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings
He leans away for highest heaven and sings,
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!—
Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill
        Your baskets high
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,
All gather’d in the dewy morning: hie
        Away! fly, fly!—
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,
Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather’d wings,
Two fan-like fountains,—thine illuminings
        For Dian play:
Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright
The Star-Queen’s crescent on her marriage night:
        Haste, haste away!—
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery:
A third is in the race! who is the third,
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?
        The ramping Centaur!
The Lion’s mane’s on end: the Bear how fierce!
The Centaur’s arrow ready seems to pierce
Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent
Into the blue of heaven. He’ll be shent,
        Pale unrelentor,
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing.—
Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying
So timidly among the stars: come hither!
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither
        They all are going.
Danae’s Son, before Jove newly bow’d,
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral:
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all
        Thy tears are flowing.—
By Daphne’s fright, behold Apollo!—”

Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore,
Prone to the green head of a misty hill.

  His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.
“Alas!” said he, “were I but always borne
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn
A path in hell, for ever would I bless
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness
For my own sullen conquering: to him
Who lives beyond earth’s boundary, grief is dim,
Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see
The grass; I feel the solid ground—Ah, me!
It is thy voice—divinest! Where?—who? who
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?
Behold upon this happy earth we are;
Let us ay love each other; let us fare
On forest-fruits, and never, never go
Among the abodes of mortals here below,
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny!
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly,
But with thy beauty will I deaden it.
Where didst thou melt too? By thee will I sit
For ever: let our fate stop here—a kid
I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid
Us live in peace, in love and peace among
His forest wildernesses. I have clung
To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen
Or felt but a great dream! O I have been
Presumptuous against love, against the sky,
Against all elements, against the tie
Of mortals each to each, against the blooms
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs
Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory
Has my own soul conspired: so my story
Will I to children utter, and repent.
There never liv’d a mortal man, who bent
His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
But starv’d and died. My sweetest Indian, here,
Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast
My life from too thin breathing: gone and past
Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel!
And air of visions, and the monstrous swell
Of visionary seas! No, never more
Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore
Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.
Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast
My love is still for thee. The hour may come
When we shall meet in pure elysium.
On earth I may not love thee; and therefore
Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store
All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine
On me, and on this damsel fair of mine,
And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss!
My river-lily bud! one human kiss!
One sigh of real breath—one gentle squeeze,
Warm as a dove’s nest among summer trees,
And warm with dew at ooze from living blood!
Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!—all good
We’ll talk about—no more of dreaming.—Now,
Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow
Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun
Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none;
And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through,
Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew?
O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place;
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin’d:
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find,
And by another, in deep dell below,
See, through the trees, a little river go
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering.
Honey from out the gnarled hive I’ll bring,
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,—
Cresses that grow where no man may them see,
And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw’d stag:
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,
That thou mayst always know whither I roam,
When it shall please thee in our quiet home
To listen and think of love. Still let me speak;
Still let me dive into the joy I seek,—
For yet the past doth prison me. The rill,
Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill
With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn,
And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel’s barn.
Its bottom will I strew with amber shells,
And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.
Its sides I’ll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,
And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.
I will entice this crystal rill to trace
Love’s silver name upon the meadow’s face.
I’ll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire;
And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre;
To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear;
To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear,
That I may see thy beauty through the night;
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light
Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods,
And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods
Of gold, and lines of Naiads’ long bright tress.
Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness!
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be
'Fore which I’ll bend, bending, dear love, to thee:
Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak
Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,
Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice,
And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice:
And that affectionate light, those diamond things,
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs,
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure.
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure?
O that I could not doubt?”

                              The mountaineer
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear
His briar’d path to some tranquillity.
It gave bright gladness to his lady’s eye,
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow;
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow
Beam’d upward from the vallies of the east:
“O that the flutter of this heart had ceas’d,
Or the sweet name of love had pass’d away.
Young feather’d tyrant! by a swift decay
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth:
And I do think that at my very birth
I lisp’d thy blooming titles inwardly;
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee,
With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven.
Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do!
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave
To the void air, bidding them find out love:
But when I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagin’d good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss,—
Even then, that moment, at the thought of this,
Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers,
And languish’d there three days. Ye milder powers,
Am I not cruelly wrong’d? Believe, believe
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave
With my own fancies garlands of sweet life,
Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife!
I may not be thy love: I am forbidden—
Indeed I am—thwarted, affrighted, chidden,
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath.
Twice hast thou ask’d whither I went: henceforth
Ask me no more! I may not utter it,
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit
Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die;
We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought!
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I’m caught
In trammels of perverse deliciousness.
No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless,
And bid a long adieu.”

                          The Carian
No word return’d: both lovelorn, silent, wan,
Into the vallies green together went.
Far wandering, they were perforce content
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;
Nor at each other gaz’d, but heavily
Por’d on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves.

  Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme:
Ensky’d ere this, but truly that I deem
Truth the best music in a first-born song.
Thy lute-voic’d brother will I sing ere long,
And thou shalt aid—hast thou not aided me?
Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity
Has been thy meed for many thousand years;
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,
Mourn’d as if yet thou wert a forester,—
Forgetting the old tale.

                            He did not stir
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.
A little onward ran the very stream
By which he took his first soft poppy dream;
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant
A crescent he had carv’d, and round it spent
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree
Had swollen and green’d the pious charactery,
But not ta’en out. Why, there was not a slope
Up which he had not fear’d the antelope;
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade
He had not with his tamed leopards play’d.
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,
Fly in the air where his had never been—
And yet he knew it not.

                          O treachery!
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye
With all his sorrowing? He sees her not.
But who so stares on him? His sister sure!
Peona of the woods!—Can she endure—
Impossible—how dearly they embrace!
His lady smiles; delight is in her face;
It is no treachery.

                      “Dear brother mine!
Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine
When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be?
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.
Be happy both of you! for I will pull
The flowers of autumn for your coronals.
Pan’s holy priest for young Endymion calls;
And when he is restor’d, thou, fairest dame,
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame
To see ye thus,—not very, very sad?
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad:
O feel as if it were a common day;
Free-voic’d as one who never was away.
No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall
Be gods of your own rest imperial.
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry
Into the hours that have pass’d us by,
Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.
O Hermes! on this very night will be
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light;
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight
Good visions in the air,—whence will befal,
As say these sages, health perpetual
To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,
In Dian’s face they read the gentle lore:
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.
Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.
Many upon thy death have ditties made;
And many, even now, their foreheads shade
With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.
New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,
And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen’s brows.
Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse
This wayward brother to his rightful joys!
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise
His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray,
To lure—Endymion, dear brother, say
What ails thee?” He could bear no more, and so
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,
And twang’d it inwardly, and calmly said:
“I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!
My only visitor! not ignorant though,
That those deceptions which for pleasure go
'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:
But there are higher ones I may not see,
If impiously an earthly realm I take.
Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake
Night after night, and day by day, until
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.
Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me
More happy than betides mortality.
A hermit young, I’ll live in mossy cave,
Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.
Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;
For to thy tongue will I all health confide.
And, for my sake, let this young maid abide
With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,
Peona, mayst return to me. I own
This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl,
Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl
Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair!
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share
This sister’s love with me?” Like one resign’d
And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind
In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown:
“Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,
Of jubilee to Dian:—truth I heard!
Well then, I see there is no little bird,
Tender soever, but is Jove’s own care.
Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,
Behold I find it! so exalted too!
So after my own heart! I knew, I knew
There was a place untenanted in it:
In that same void white Chastity shall sit,
And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.
With sanest lips I vow me to the number
Of Dian’s sisterhood; and, kind lady,
With thy good help, this very night shall see
My future days to her fane consecrate.”

  As feels a dreamer what doth most create
His own particular fright, so these three felt:
Or like one who, in after ages, knelt
To Lucifer or Baal, when he’d pine
After a little sleep: or when in mine
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends
Who know him not. Each diligently bends
Towards common thoughts and things for very fear;
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,
By thinking it a thing of yes and no,
That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last
Endymion said: “Are not our fates all cast?
Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair!
Adieu!” Whereat those maidens, with wild stare,
Walk’d dizzily away. Pained and hot
His eyes went after them, until they got
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw,
In one swift moment, would what then he saw
Engulph for ever. “Stay!” he cried, “ah, stay!
Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say.
Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again.
It is a thing I dote on: so I’d fain,
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair
Into those holy groves, that silent are
Behind great Dian’s temple. I’ll be yon,
At vesper’s earliest twinkle—they are gone—
But once, once, once again—” At this he press’d
His hands against his face, and then did rest
His head upon a mossy hillock green,
And so remain’d as he a corpse had been
All the long day; save when he scantly lifted
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted
With the slow move of time,—sluggish and weary
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary,
Had reach’d the river’s brim. Then up he rose,
And, slowly as that very river flows,
Walk’d towards the temple grove with this lament:
“Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent
Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall
Before the serene father of them all
Bows down his summer head below the west.
Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest,
But at the setting I must bid adieu
To her for the last time. Night will strew
On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves,
And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses;
My kingdom’s at its death, and just it is
That I should die with it: so in all this
We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe,
What is there to plain of? By Titan’s foe
I am but rightly serv’d.” So saying, he
Tripp’d lightly on, in sort of deathful glee;
Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,
As though they jests had been: nor had he done
His laugh at nature’s holy countenance,
Until that grove appear’d, as if perchance,
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed
Gave utterance as he entered: “Ha!” I said,
“King of the butterflies; but by this gloom,
And by old Rhadamanthus’ tongue of doom,
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude,
And the Promethean clay by thief endued,
By old Saturnus’ forelock, by his head
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
Myself to things of light from infancy;
And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die,
Is sure enough to make a mortal man
Grow impious.” So he inwardly began
On things for which no wording can be found;
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown’d
Beyond the reach of music: for the choir
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar
Nor muffling thicket interpos’d to dull
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,
Wan as primroses gather’d at midnight
By chilly finger’d spring. “Unhappy wight!
Endymion!” said Peona, “we are here!
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?”
Then he embrac’d her, and his lady’s hand
Press’d, saying:" Sister, I would have command,
If it were heaven’s will, on our sad fate."
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love,
To Endymion’s amaze: “By Cupid’s dove,
And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!”
And as she spake, into her face there came
Light, as reflected from a silver flame:
Her long black hair swell’d ampler, in display
Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day
Dawn’d blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld
Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld
Her lucid bow, continuing thus; “Drear, drear
Has our delaying been; but foolish fear
Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook’d for change
Be spiritualiz’d. Peona, we shall range
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be
As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee
To meet us many a time.” Next Cynthia bright
Peona kiss’d, and bless’d with fair good night:
Her brother kiss’d her too, and knelt adown
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,
Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
They vanish’d far away!—Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.

O that a week could be an age, and we
Felt parting and warm meeting every week,
Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
So could we live long life in little space,
So time itself would be annihilate,
So a day’s journey in oblivious haze
To serve ourjoys would lengthen and dilate.
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!
In little time a host of joys to bind,
And keep our souls in one eternal pant!
This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught
Me how to harbour such a happy thought.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
   Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi—tone,
   Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
   Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
   Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
   When the dusk holiday– or holinight
Of fragrant—curtain’d love begins to weave
   The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to—day,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air,
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
My sudden adoration, my great love!

Where’s the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him.
‘Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan
Or any other wonderous thing
A man may be ’twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion’s roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger’s yell
Come articulate and presseth
Or his ear like mother-tongue.

To one who has been long in city pent,
         'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
         And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,
         Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
         Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
         Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
         He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
         That falls through the clear ether silently.