ERRATUM.

ERRATUM.Page 108, line 4 from the bottom, for "her" read "his."ENDYMION.BOOK I.A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathingA flowery band to bind us to the earth,Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearthOf noble natures, of the gloomy days,Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways10Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boonFor simple sheep; and such are daffodilsWith the green world they live in; and clear rillsThat for themselves a cooling covert make'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:And such too is the grandeur of the dooms20We have imagined for the mighty dead;All lovely tales that we have heard or read:An endless fountain of immortal drink,Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.Nor do we merely feel these essencesFor one short hour; no, even as the treesThat whisper round a temple become soonDear as the temple's self, so does the moon,The passion poesy, glories infinite,Haunt us till they become a cheering light30Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,They alway must be with us, or we die.Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that IWill trace the story of Endymion.The very music of the name has goneInto my being, and each pleasant sceneIs growing fresh before me as the greenOf our own vallies: so I will beginNow while I cannot hear the city's din;40Now while the early budders are just new,And run in mazes of the youngest hueAbout old forests; while the willow trailsIts delicate amber; and the dairy pailsBring home increase of milk. And, as the yearGrows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steerMy little boat, for many quiet hours,With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.Many and many a verse I hope to write,Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,50Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the beesHum about globes of clover and sweet peas,I must be near the middle of my story.O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,With universal tinge of sober gold,Be all about me when I make an end.And now at once, adventuresome, I sendMy herald thought into a wilderness:There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress60My uncertain path with green, that I may speedEasily onward, thorough flowers and weed.Upon the sides of Latmos was outspreadA mighty forest; for the moist earth fedSo plenteously all weed-hidden rootsInto o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keepA lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,Never again saw he the happy pens70Whither his brethren, bleating with content,Over the hills at every nightfall went.Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,That not one fleecy lamb which thus did severFrom the white flock, but pass'd unworriedBy angry wolf, or pard with prying head,Until it came to some unfooted plainsWhere fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gainsWho thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,80And ivy banks; all leading pleasantlyTo a wide lawn, whence one could only seeStems thronging all around between the swellOf turf and slanting branches: who could tellThe freshness of the space of heaven above,Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a doveWould often beat its wings, and often tooA little cloud would move across the blue.Full in the middle of this pleasantnessThere stood a marble altar, with a tress90Of flowers budded newly; and the dewHad taken fairy phantasies to strewDaisies upon the sacred sward last eve,And so the dawned light in pomp receive.For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fireMade every eastern cloud a silvery pyreOf brightness so unsullied, that thereinA melancholy spirit well might winOblivion, and melt out his essence fineInto the winds: rain-scented eglantine100Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;The lark was lost in him; cold springs had runTo warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;Man's voice was on the mountains; and the massOf nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, with joyful cries, there spedA troop of little children garlanded;110Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of holiday: nor had they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which ev'n thenFill'd out its voice, and died away again.Within a little space again it gaveIts airy swellings, with a gentle wave,To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breakingThrough copse-clad vallies,–ere their death, o'ertakingThe surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.121And now, as deep into the wood as weMight mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered lightFair faces and a rush of garments white,Plainer and plainer shewing, till at lastInto the widest alley they all past,Making directly for the woodland altar.O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulterIn telling of this goodly company,Of their old piety, and of their glee:130But let a portion of ethereal dewFall on my head, and presently unmewMy soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.Leading the way, young damsels danced along,Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;Each having a white wicker over brimm'dWith April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looksAs may be read of in Arcadian books;140Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,When the great deity, for earth too ripe,Let his divinity o'er-flowing dieIn music, through the vales of Thessaly:Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,And some kept up a shrilly mellow soundWith ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,Now coming from beneath the forest trees,A venerable priest full soberly,Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye150Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,And after him his sacred vestments swept.From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;And in his left he held a basket fullOf all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter stillThan Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth160Of winter hoar. Then came another crowdOf shepherds, lifting in due time aloudTheir share of the ditty. After them appear'd,Up-followed by a multitude that rear'dTheir voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,Easily rolling so as scarce to marThe freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:Who stood therein did seem of great renownAmong the throng. His youth was fully blown,Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;170And, for those simple times, his garments wereA chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,Was hung a silver bugle, and betweenHis nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,To common lookers on, like one who dream'dOf idleness in groves Elysian:But there were some who feelingly could scanA lurking trouble in his nether lip,And see that oftentimes the reins would slip180Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,Of logs piled solemnly.–Ah, well-a-day,Why should our young Endymion pine away!Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'dTo sudden veneration: women meekBeckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheekOf virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.Endymion too, without a forest peer,190Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,Among his brothers of the mountain chase.In midst of all, the venerable priestEyed them with joy from greatest to the least,And, after lifting up his aged hands,Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:Whether descended from beneath the rocksThat overtop your mountains; whether comeFrom vallies where the pipe is never dumb;200Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chargeNibble their fill at ocean's very marge,Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlornBy the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:Mothers and wives! who day by day prepareThe scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;And all ye gentle girls who foster upUdderless lambs, and in a little cup210Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:Yea, every one attend! for in good truthOur vows are wanting to our great god Pan.Are not our lowing heifers sleeker thanNight-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plainsSpeckled with countless fleeces? Have not rainsGreen'd over April's lap? No howling sadSickens our fearful ewes; and we have hadGreat bounty from Endymion our lord.The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd220His early song against yon breezy sky,That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spireOf teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sodWith wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.Now while the earth was drinking it, and whileBay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light230Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:"O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hangFrom jagged trunks, and overshadowethEternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, deathOf unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dressTheir ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearkenThe dreary melody of bedded reeds–In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds240The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;Bethinking thee, how melancholy lothThou wast to lose fair Syrinx–do thou now,By thy love's milky brow!By all the trembling mazes that she ran,Hear us, great Pan!"O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtlesPassion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,What time thou wanderest at eventideThrough sunny meadows, that outskirt the side250Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whomBroad leaved fig trees even now foredoomTheir ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted beesTheir golden honeycombs; our village leasTheir fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn;The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,To sing for thee; low creeping strawberriesTheir summer coolness; pent up butterfliesTheir freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding yearAll its completions–be quickly near,260By every wind that nods the mountain pine,O forester divine!"Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr fliesFor willing service; whether to surpriseThe squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;Or upward ragged precipices flitTo save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;Or by mysterious enticement drawBewildered shepherds to their path again;Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,270And gather up all fancifullest shellsFor thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,The while they pelt each other on the crownWith silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown–By all the echoes that about thee ring,Hear us, O satyr king!"O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,While ever and anon to his shorn peers280A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,That come a swooning over hollow grounds,And wither drearily on barren moors:Dread opener of the mysterious doorsLeading to universal knowledge–see,Great son of Dryope,290The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows!Be still the unimaginable lodgeFor solitary thinkings; such as dodgeConception to the very bourne of heaven,Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,That spreading in this dull and clodded earthGives it a touch ethereal–a new birth:Be still a symbol of immensity;A firmament reflected in a sea;300An element filling the space between;An unknown–but no more: we humbly screenWith uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,And giving out a shout most heaven rending,Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan,Upon thy Mount Lycean!Even while they brought the burden to a close,A shout from the whole multitude arose,That lingered in the air like dying rollsOf abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals310Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,Young companies nimbly began dancingTo the swift treble pipe, and humming string.Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenlyTo tunes forgotten–out of memory:Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bredThermopylæ its heroes–not yet dead,But in old marbles ever beautiful.High genitors, unconscious did they cull320Time's sweet first-fruits–they danc'd to weariness,And then in quiet circles did they pressThe hillock turf, and caught the latter endOf some strange history, potent to sendA young mind from its bodily tenement.Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intentOn either side; pitying the sad deathOf Hyacinthus, when the cruel breathOf Zephyr slew him,–Zephyr penitent,Who now, ere Phœbus mounts the firmament,330Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.The archers too, upon a wider plain,Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raftBranch down sweeping from a tall ash top,Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelopeThose who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling kneeAnd frantic gape of lonely Niobe,Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely youngWere dead and gone, and her caressing tongue340Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,And very, very deadliness did nipHer motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad moodBy one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,Uplifting his strong bow into the air,Many might after brighter visions stare:After the Argonauts, in blind amazeTossing about on Neptune's restless ways,Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,There shot a golden splendour far and wide,350Spangling those million poutings of the brineWith quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shineFrom the exaltation of Apollo's bow;A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,Might turn their steps towards the sober ringWhere sat Endymion and the aged priest'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'dThe silvery setting of their mortal star.There they discours'd upon the fragile bar360That keeps us from our homes ethereal;And what our duties there: to nightly callVesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;To summon all the downiest clouds togetherFor the sun's purple couch; to emulateIn ministring the potent rule of fateWith speed of fire-tailed exhalations;To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who consSweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,A world of other unguess'd offices.370Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,Into Elysium; vieing to rehearseEach one his own anticipated bliss.One felt heart-certain that he could not missHis quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endowsHer lips with music for the welcoming.Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:380Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;And, ever after, through those regions beHis messenger, his little Mercury,Some were athirst in soul to see againTheir fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaignIn times long past; to sit with them, and talkOf all the chances in their earthly walk;Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous storesOf happiness, to when upon the moors,390Benighted, close they huddled from the cold,And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-toldTheir fond imaginations,–saving himWhose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim,Endymion: yet hourly had he strivenTo hide the cankering venom, that had rivenHis fainting recollections. Now indeedHis senses had swoon'd off: he did not heedThe sudden silence, or the whispers low,Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,400Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms,Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms:But in the self-same fixed trance he kept,Like one who on the earth had never slept.Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man,Frozen in that old tale Arabian.Who whispers him so pantingly and close?Peona, his sweet sister: of all those,His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made,And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade410A yielding up, a cradling on her care.Her eloquence did breathe away the curse:She led him, like some midnight spirit nurseOf happy changes in emphatic dreams,Along a path between two little streams,–Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow,From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slowFrom stumbling over stumps and hillocks small;Until they came to where these streamlets fall,With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush,420Into a river, clear, brimful, and flushWith crystal mocking of the trees and sky.A little shallop, floating there hard by,Pointed its beak over the fringed bank;And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank,And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,–Peona guiding, through the water straight,Towards a bowery island opposite;Which gaining presently, she steered lightInto a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,430Where nested was an arbour, overwoveBy many a summer's silent fingering;To whose cool bosom she was used to bringHer playmates, with their needle broidery,And minstrel memories of times gone by.So she was gently glad to see him laidUnder her favourite bower's quiet shade,On her own couch, new made of flower leaves,Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheavesWhen last the sun his autumn tresses shook,440And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took.Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest:But, ere it crept upon him, he had prestPeona's busy hand against his lips,And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tipsIn tender pressure. And as a willow keepsA patient watch over the stream that creepsWindingly by it, so the quiet maidHeld her in peace: so that a whispering bladeOf grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling450Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustlingAmong sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mindTill it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'dRestraint! imprisoned liberty! great keyTo golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,Echoing grottos, full of tumbling wavesAnd moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world460Of silvery enchantment!–who, upfurl'dBeneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,But renovates and lives?–Thus, in the bower,Endymion was calm'd to life again.Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain,He said: "I feel this thine endearing loveAll through my bosom: thou art as a doveTrembling its closed eyes and sleeked wingsAbout me; and the pearliest dew not bringsSuch morning incense from the fields of May,470As do those brighter drops that twinkling strayFrom those kind eyes,–the very home and hauntOf sisterly affection. Can I wantAught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fearsThat, any longer, I will pass my daysAlone and sad. No, I will once more raiseMy voice upon the mountain-heights; once moreMake my horn parley from their foreheads hoar:Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll480Around the breathed boar: again I'll pollThe fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow:And, when the pleasant sun is getting low,Again I'll linger in a sloping meadTo hear the speckled thrushes, and see feedOur idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet,And, if thy lute is here, softly intreatMy soul to keep in its resolved course."Hereat Peona, in their silver source,Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim,490And took a lute, from which there pulsing cameA lively prelude, fashioning the wayIn which her voice should wander. 'Twas a layMore subtle cadenced, more forest wildThan Dryope's lone lulling of her child;And nothing since has floated in the airSo mournful strange. Surely some influence rareWent, spiritual, through the damsel's hand;For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'dThe quick invisible strings, even though she saw500Endymion's spirit melt away and thawBefore the deep intoxication.But soon she came, with sudden burst, uponHer self-possession–swung the lute aside,And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hideThat thou dost know of things mysterious,Immortal, starry; such alone could thusWeigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aughtOffensive to the heavenly powers? CaughtA Paphian dove upon a message sent?510Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent,Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seenHer naked limbs among the alders green;And that, alas! is death. No, I can traceSomething more high perplexing in thy face!"Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand,And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so blandAnd merry in our meadows? How is this?Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss!–Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change520Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange?Or more complete to overwhelm surmise?Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize,That toiling years would put within my grasp,That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gaspNo man e'er panted for a mortal love.So all have set my heavier grief aboveThese things which happen. Rightly have they done:I, who still saw the horizontal sunHeave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world,530Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'dMy spear aloft, as signal for the chace–I, who, for very sport of heart, would raceWith my own steed from Araby; pluck downA vulture from his towery perching; frownA lion into growling, loth retire–To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire,And sink thus low! but I will ease my breastOf secret grief, here in this bowery nest."This river does not see the naked sky,540Till it begins to progress silverlyAround the western border of the wood,Whence, from a certain spot, its winding floodSeems at the distance like a crescent moon:And in that nook, the very pride of June,Had I been used to pass my weary eves;The rather for the sun unwilling leavesSo dear a picture of his sovereign power,And I could witness his most kingly hour,When he doth lighten up the golden reins,550And paces leisurely down amber plainsHis snorting four. Now when his chariot lastIts beams against the zodiac-lion cast,There blossom'd suddenly a magic bedOf sacred ditamy, and poppies red:At which I wondered greatly, knowing wellThat but one night had wrought this flowery spell;And, sitting down close by, began to museWhat it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus,In passing here, his owlet pinions shook;560Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptookHer ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth,Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealthCame not by common growth. Thus on I thought,Until my head was dizzy and distraught.Moreover, through the dancing poppies stoleA breeze, most softly lulling to my soul;And shaping visions all about my sightOf colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light;The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim:571And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tellThe enchantment that afterwards befel?Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dreamThat never tongue, although it overteemWith mellow utterance, like a cavern spring,Could figure out and to conception bringAll I beheld and felt. Methought I layWatching the zenith, where the milky wayAmong the stars in virgin splendour pours;580And travelling my eye, until the doorsOf heaven appear'd to open for my flight,I became loth and fearful to alightFrom such high soaring by a downward glance:So kept me stedfast in that airy trance,Spreading imaginary pinions wide.When, presently, the stars began to glide,And faint away, before my eager view:At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue,And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge;590And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emergeThe loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'erA shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soarSo passionately bright, my dazzled soulCommingling with her argent spheres did rollThrough clear and cloudy, even when she wentAt last into a dark and vapoury tent–Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed trainOf planets all were in the blue again.To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd600My sight right upward: but it was quite dazedBy a bright something, sailing down apace,Making me quickly veil my eyes and face:Again I look'd, and, O ye deities,Who from Olympus watch our destinies!Whence that completed form of all completeness?Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O whereHast thou a symbol of her golden hair?Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;610Not–thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shunSuch follying before thee–yet she had,Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;The which were blended in, I know not how,With such a paradise of lips and eyes,Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings620And plays about its fancy, till the stingsOf human neighbourhood envenom all.Unto what awful power shall I call?To what high fane?–Ah! see her hovering feet,More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweetThan those of sea-born Venus, when she roseFrom out her cradle shell. The wind out-blowsHer scarf into a fluttering pavilion;'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a millionOf little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,630Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,Handfuls of daisies."–"Endymion, how strange!Dream within dream!"–"She took an airy range,And then, towards me, like a very maid,Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much;Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,Yet held my recollection, even as oneWho dives three fathoms where the waters runGurgling in beds of coral: for anon,640I felt upmounted in that regionWhere falling stars dart their artillery forth,And eagles struggle with the buffeting northThat balances the heavy meteor-stone;–Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone,But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky.Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high,And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd;Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'dHuge dens and caverns in a mountain's side:650There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'dTo faint once more by looking on my bliss–I was distracted; madly did I kissThe wooing arms which held me, and did giveMy eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live,To take in draughts of life from the gold fountOf kind and passionate looks; to count, and countThe moments, by some greedy help that seem'dA second self, that each might be redeem'dAnd plunder'd of its load of blessedness.660Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to pressHer very cheek against my crowned lip,And, at that moment, felt my body dipInto a warmer air: a moment more,Our feet were soft in flowers. There was storeOf newest joys upon that alp. SometimesA scent of violets, and blossoming limes,Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells,Made delicate from all white-flower bells;And once, above the edges of our nest,670An arch face peep'd,–an Oread as I guess'd."Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd meIn midst of all this heaven? Why not see,Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark,And stare them from me? But no, like a sparkThat needs must die, although its little beamReflects upon a diamond, my sweet dreamFell into nothing–into stupid sleep.And so it was, until a gentle creep,A careful moving caught my waking ears,680And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears,My clenched hands;–for lo! the poppies hungDew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sungA heavy ditty, and the sullen dayHad chidden herald Hesperus away,With leaden looks: the solitary breezeBluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teazeWith wayward melancholy; and I thought,Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it broughtFaint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus!–690Away I wander'd–all the pleasant huesOf heaven and earth had faded: deepest shadesWere deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny gladesWere full of pestilent light; our taintless rillsSeem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gillsOf dying fish; the vermeil rose had blownIn frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grownLike spiked aloe. If an innocent birdBefore my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'dIn little journeys, I beheld in it700A disguis'd demon, missioned to knitMy soul with under darkness; to enticeMy stumblings down some monstrous precipice:Therefore I eager followed, and did curseThe disappointment. Time, that aged nurse,Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven!These things, with all their comfortings, are givenTo my down-sunken hours, and with thee,Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing seaOf weary life."710Thus ended he, and bothSat silent: for the maid was very lothTo answer; feeling well that breathed wordsWould all be lost, unheard, and vain as swordsAgainst the enchased crocodile, or leapsOf grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps,And wonders; struggles to devise some blame;To put on such a look as would say,ShameOn this poor weakness!but, for all her strife,She could as soon have crush'd away the life720From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause,She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause?This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas!That one who through this middle earth should passMost like a sojourning demi-god, and leaveHis name upon the harp-string, should achieveNo higher bard than simple maidenhood,Singing alone, and fearfully,–how the bloodLeft his young cheek; and how he used to strayHe knew not where; and how he would say,nay,730If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love;What could it be but love? How a ring-doveLet fall a sprig of yew tree in his path;And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe,The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses;And then the ballad of his sad life closesWith sighs, and an alas!–Endymion!Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,–anonAmong the winds at large–that all may hearken!Although, before the crystal heavens darken,740I watch and dote upon the silver lakesPictur'd in western cloudiness, that takesThe semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands,Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strandsWith horses prancing o'er them, palacesAnd towers of amethyst,–would I so teaseMy pleasant days, because I could not mountInto those regions? The Morphean fountOf that fine element that visions, dreams,And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams750Into its airy channels with so subtle,So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle,Circled a million times within the spaceOf a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace,A tinting of its quality: how lightMust dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slightThan the mere nothing that engenders them!Then wherefore sully the entrusted gemOf high and noble life with thoughts so sick?Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick760For nothing but a dream?" Hereat the youthLook'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruthWas in his plaited brow: yet, his eyelidsWidened a little, as when Zephyr bidsA little breeze to creep between the fansOf careless butterflies: amid his painsHe seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew,Full palatable; and a colour grewUpon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake."Peona! ever have I long'd to slake770My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base,No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlaceThe stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd–Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'dAnd sullenly drifting: yet my higher hopeIs of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope,To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,780Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven! FoldA rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stressOf music's kiss impregnates the free winds,And with a sympathetic touch unbindsEolian magic from their lucid wombs:Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave790Round every spot were trod Apollo's foot;Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,Where long ago a giant battle was;And, from the turf, a lullaby doth passIn every place where infant Orpheus slept.Feel we these things?–that moment have we steptInto a sort of oneness, and our stateIs like a floating spirit's. But there areRicher entanglements, enthralments farMore self-destroying, leading, by degrees,800To the chief intensity: the crown of theseIs made of love and friendship, and sits highUpon the forehead of humanity.All its more ponderous and bulky worthIs friendship, whence there ever issues forthA steady splendour; but at the tip-top,There hangs by unseen film, an orbed dropOf light, and that is love: its influence,Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,At which we start and fret; till in the end,810Melting into its radiance, we blend,Mingle, and so become a part of it,–Nor with aught else can our souls interknitSo wingedly: when we combine therewith,Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith,And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,That men, who might have tower'd in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of time820All chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium.And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,Than speak against this ardent listlessness:For I have ever thought that it might blessThe world with benefits unknowingly;As does the nightingale, upperched high,And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves–830She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceivesHow tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.Just so may love, although 'tis understoodThe mere commingling of passionate breath,Produce more than our searching witnesseth:What I know not: but who, of men, can tellThat flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swellTo melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,840The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,If human souls did never kiss and greet?"Now, if this earthly love has power to makeMen's being mortal, immortal; to shakeAmbition from their memories, and brimTheir measure of content; what merest whim,Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,To one, who keeps within his stedfast aimA love immortal, an immortal too.850Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true,And never can be born of atomiesThat buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure,My restless spirit never could endureTo brood so long upon one luxury,Unless it did, though fearfully, espyA hope beyond the shadow of a dream.My sayings will the less obscured seem,When I have told thee how my waking sight860Has made me scruple whether that same nightWas pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged browsBushes and trees do lean all round athwart,And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glidePast them, but he must brush on every side.Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell,870Far as the slabbed margin of a well,Whose patient level peeps its crystal eyeRight upward, through the bushes, to the sky.Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks setLike vestal primroses, but dark velvetEdges them round, and they have golden pits:'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slitsIn a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,When all above was faint with mid-day heat.And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,880I'd bubble up the water through a reed;So reaching back to boy-hood: make me shipsOf moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune beOf their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,I sat contemplating the figures wildOf o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through.Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flewA cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;890So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiverThe happy chance: so happy, I was fainTo follow it upon the open plain,And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!A wonder, fair as any I have told–The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leapThrough the cool depth.–It moved as if to flee–I started up, when lo! refreshfully,There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,900Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,Bathing my spirit in a new delight.Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of blissAlone preserved me from the drear abyssOf death, for the fair form had gone again.Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us, like the gnawing slothOn the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth,'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.910How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisureOf weary days, made deeper exquisite,By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill:And a whole age of lingering moments creptSluggishly by, ere more contentment sweptAway at once the deadly yellow spleen.Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;Once more been tortured with renewed life.920When last the wintry gusts gave over strifeWith the conquering sun of spring, and left the skiesWarm and serene, but yet with moistened eyesIn pity of the shatter'd infant buds,–That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd,Chatted with thee, and many days exil'dAll torment from my breast;–'twas even then,Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the denOf helpless discontent,–hurling my lance930From place to place, and following at chance,At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuckIn the middle of a brook,–whose silver rambleDown twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did laveThe nether sides of mossy stones and rock,–'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mockIts own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,940Hung a lush scene of drooping weeds, and spreadThick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home."Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?"Said I, low voic'd: "Ah, whither! 'Tis the grotOf Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,Doth her resign; and where her tender handsShe dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,And babbles thorough silence, till her witsAre gone in tender madness, and anon,950Faints into sleep, with many a dying toneOf sadness. O that she would take my vows,And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,And weave them dyingly–send honey-whispersRound every leaf, that all those gentle lispersMay sigh my love unto her pitying!O charitable echo! hear, and singThis ditty to her!–tell her"–so I stay'd960My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.Salt tears were coming, when I heard my nameMost fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came:"Endymion! the cave is secreterThan the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stirNo sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noiseOf thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloysAnd trembles through my labyrinthine hair."970At that oppress'd I hurried in.–Ah! whereAre those swift moments? Whither are they fled?I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wedSorrow the way to death; but patientlyBear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;And come instead demurest meditation,To occupy me wholly, and to fashionMy pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.No more will I count over, link by link,My chain of grief: no longer strive to find980A half-forgetfulness in mountain windBlustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;What a calm round of hours shall make my days.There is a paly flame of hope that playsWhere'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught–And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,Already, a more healthy countenance?By this the sun is setting; we may chanceMeet some of our near-dwellers with my car."990This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a starThrough autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.ENDYMION.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 tearsHave become indolent; but touching thine,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 fades10Into some backward corner of the brain;Yet, in our very souls, we feel amainThe close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!Swart planet in the universe of deeds!Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breedsAlong the pebbled shore of memory!Many old rotten-timber'd boats there beUpon thy vaporous bosom, magnifiedTo goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,20And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.But wherefore this? What care, though owl did flyAbout the great Athenian admiral's mast?What care, though striding Alexander pastThe Indus with his Macedonian numbers?Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbersThe glutted Cyclops, what care?–Juliet leaningAmid her window-flowers,–sighing,–weaningTenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,Doth more avail than these: the silver flow30Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,Are things to brood on with more ardencyThan the death-day of empires. FearfullyMust such conviction come upon his head,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 drearThan to be crush'd, in striving to uprear40Love'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 sinceThe day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrowsCome 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;50Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokesOf 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 fingeringStems the upbursting cold: a wild rose treePavilions him in bloom, and he doth seeA bud which snares his fancy: lo! but nowHe plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;60And, in the middle, there is softly pightA golden butterfly; upon whose wingsThere 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:Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bandsHis limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hiesDazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;70And like a new-born spirit did he passThrough the green evening quiet in the sun,O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreamsThe summer time away. One track unseamsA wooded cleft, and, far away, the blueOf 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 cadences80Melting to silence, when upon the breezeSome holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feetWent swift beneath the merry-winged guide,Until it reached a splashing fountain's sideThat, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'dUnto the temperate air: then high it soar'd,And, downward, suddenly began to dip,As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sipThe crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch90Most delicate, as though afraid to smutchEven with mealy gold the waters clear.But, at that very touch, to disappearSo fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,Endymion sought around, and shook each bedOf covert flowers in vain; and then he flungHimself along the grass. What gentle tongue,What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?It was a nymph uprisen to the breastIn the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood100'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.To him her dripping hand she softly kist,And anxiously began to plait and twistHer ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth!Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,The bitterness of love: too long indeed,Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weedThy soul of care, by heavens, I would offerAll the bright riches of my crystal cofferTo Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,110Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that drawsA virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sandsTawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far landsBy my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,My charming rod, my potent river spells;Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cupMeander gave me,–for I bubbled upTo fainting creatures in a desert wild.120But woe is me, I am but as a childTo gladden thee; and all I dare to say,Is, that I pity thee; that on this dayI've been thy guide; that thou must wander farIn other regions, past the scanty barTo mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'enFrom 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!130I have a ditty for my hollow cell."Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze,Who brooded o'er the water in amaze:The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its poolLay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,And fish were dimpling, as if good nor illHad fallen out that hour. The wanderer,Holding his forehead, to keep off the burrOf smothering fancies, patiently sat down;140And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frownGlow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encampsTo take a fancied city of delight,O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his,After long toil and travelling, to missThe 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-head of doubt150That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: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,All human; bearing in themselves this good,That they are still the air, the subtle food,To make us feel existence, and to shewHow quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,160Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,There is no depth to strike in: I can seeNought earthly worth my compassing; so standUpon a misty, jutting head of land–Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,When mad Eurydice is listening to't;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 dove170Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,Glance but one little beam of temper'd lightInto my bosom, that the dreadful mightAnd tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd!Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd,Would give a pang to jealous misery,Worse than the torment's self: but rather tieLarge wings upon my shoulders, and point outMy love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout180Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prowNot to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.O be propitious, nor severely deemMy madness impious; for, by all the starsThat tend thy bidding, I do think the barsThat kept my spirit in are burst–that IAm sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep190Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,How lithe! When this thy chariot attainsIts airy goal, haply some bower veilsThose twilight eyes?–Those eyes!–my spirit fails–Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping airWill gulph me–help!"–At this with madden'd stare,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 borne200A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moanHad more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth: "Descend,Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bendInto the sparry hollows of the world!Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'dAs from thy threshold; day by day hast beenA little lower than the chilly sheenOf icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine armsInto the deadening ether that still charms210Their marble being: now, as deep profoundAs those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'dWith immortality, who fears to followWhere airy voices lead: so through the hollow,The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"He heard but the last words, nor could contendOne moment in reflection: for he fledInto the fearful deep, to hide his headFrom the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite221To 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.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,230Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roofCurves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,It seems an angry lightning, and doth hissFancy into belief: anon it leadsThrough winding passages, where sameness breedsVexing conceptions of some sudden change;Whether to silver grots, or giant rangeOf sapphire columns, or fantastic bridgeAthwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge240Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneathTowers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seethA hundred waterfalls, whose voices comeBut as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numbHis bosom grew, when first he, far away,Descried an orbed diamond, set to frayOld darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sunUprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stunCame the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,He saw not fiercer wonders–past the wit250Of any spirit to tell, but one of thoseWho, when this planet's sphering time doth close,Will be its high remembrancers: who they?The mighty ones who have made eternal dayFor Greece and England. While astonishmentWith deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he wentInto a marble gallery, passing throughA mimic temple, so complete and trueIn sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'dTo search it inwards; whence far off appear'd,260Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eyeDown sidelong aisles, and into niches old.And when, more near against the marble coldHe had touch'd his forehead, he began to threadAll courts and passages, where silence deadRous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint270Himself with every mystery, and awe;Till, weary, he sat down before the mawOf a wide outlet, fathomless and dimTo wild uncertainty and shadows grim.There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before,And thoughts of self came on, how crude and soreThe 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,280Into the bosom of a hated thing.What misery most drowningly doth singIn lone Endymion's ear, now he has caughtThe goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!He cannot see the heavens, nor the flowOf rivers, nor hill-flowers running wildIn pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest290Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;But far from such companionship to wearAn 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?"No! loudly echoed times innumerable.At which he straightway started, and 'gan tellHis paces back into the temple's chief;Warming and growing strong in the belief300Of help from Dian: so that when againHe caught her airy form, thus did he plain,Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chasteOf river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,Where with thy silver bow and arrows keenArt thou now forested? O woodland Queen,What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?Where dost thou listen to the wide halloosOf thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark treeGlimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be,310'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost tasteFreedom as none can taste it, nor dost wasteThy loveliness in dismal elements;But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,There livest blissfully. Ah, if to theeIt feels Elysian, how rich to me,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–320O let me slake it at the running springs!Upon my car 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?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,330O think how I should love a bed of flowers!–Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleapHis destiny, alert he stood: but whenObstinate silence came heavily again,Feeling about for its old couch of spaceAnd airy cradle, lowly bow'd his faceDesponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill340To its old channel, or a swollen tideTo margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crownsUp heaping through the slab: refreshment drownsItself, and strives its own delights to hide–Nor in one spot alone; the floral prideIn a long whispering birth enchanted grewBefore his footsteps; as when heav'd anewOld 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.351Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastesOne moment with his hand among the sweets:Onward he goes–he stops–his bosom beatsAs plainly in his ear, as the faint charmOf 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 blow360Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;Or than the west, made jealous by the smilesOf thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyreTo seas Ionian and Tyrian.O did he ever live, that lonely man,Who lov'd–and music slew not? 'Tis the pestOf love, that fairest joys give most unrest;That things of delicate and tenderest worthAre swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth,By one consuming flame: it doth immerse370And suffocate true blessings in a curse.Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,Is miserable. 'Twas even so with thisDew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear;First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,Vanish'd in elemental passion.And down some swart abysm he had gone,Had not a heavenly guide benignant ledTo where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his headBrushing, awakened: then the sounds again380Went noiseless as a passing noontide rainOver a bower, where little space he stood;For as the sunset peeps into a woodSo saw he panting light, and towards it wentThrough winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.After a thousand mazes overgone,At last, with sudden step, he came uponA chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high,390Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,And more of beautiful and strange beside:For on a silken couch of rosy pride,In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youthOf fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: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 curve400Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerveOf knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;But rather, giving them to the filled sightOfficiously. Sideway his face repos'dOn one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd,By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouthTo slumbery pout; just as the morning southDisparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,Four lily stalks did their white honours wedTo make a coronal; and round him grew410All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,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;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.420One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;And, ever and anon, uprose to lookAt the youth's slumber; while another tookA willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,And shook it on his hair; another flewIn through the woven roof, and fluttering-wiseRain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.At these enchantments, and yet many more,The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er;430Until, impatient in embarrassment,He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading wentTo that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway,Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper dayThou art a wanderer, and thy presence hereMight seem unholy, be of happy cheer!For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour,When some ethereal and high-favouring donorPresents immortal bowers to mortal sense;As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence440Was I in no wise startled. So reclineUpon 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 fearsWere high about Pomona: here is cream,Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'dFor the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd450By any touch, a bunch of blooming plumsReady 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 knowOf all these things around us." He did so,Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre;And thus: "I need not any hearing tireBy telling how the sea-born goddess pin'dFor a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind460Him all in all unto her doting self.Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf,He was content to let her amorous pleaFaint through his careless arms; content to seeAn unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet;Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,Lay sorrowing; when every tear was bornOf diverse passion; when her lips and eyesWere clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs470Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.Hush! no exclaim–yet, justly mightst thou callCurses upon his head.–I was half glad,But my poor mistress went distract and mad,When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flewTo Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drewImmortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'dEach summer time to life. Lo! this is he,That same Adonis, safe in the privacy480Of this still region all his winter-sleep.Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weepOver his waned corse, the tremulous showerHeal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power,Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:The which she fills with visions, and doth dressIn all this quiet luxury; and hath setUs young immortals, without any let,To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd,Even to a moment's filling up, and fast490She scuds with summer breezes, to pant throughThe first long kiss, warm firstling, to renewEmbower'd sports in Cytherea's isle.Look! how those winged listeners all this whileStand anxious: see! behold!"–This clamant wordBroke through the careful silence; for they heardA rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'dPigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter'd,The while one hand, that erst upon his thighLay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and gradually500Up to his forehead. Then there was a humOf sudden voices, echoing, "Come! come!Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk'dUnto the clover-sward, and she has talk'dFull soothingly to every nested finch:Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinchTo 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 over head their little fists510In backward yawns. But all were soon alive:For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, diveIn nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair,So from the arbour roof down swell'd an airOdorous and enlivening; making allTo laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly callFor their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed greenDisparted, and far upward could be seenBlue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,Spun off a drizzling dew,–which falling chill521On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him stillNestle 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,Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd:Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'dA tumult to his heart, and a new lifeInto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,530But for her comforting! unhappy sight,But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can writeOf these first minutes? The unchariest museTo embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.

Page 108, line 4 from the bottom, for "her" read "his."

BOOK I.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathingA flowery band to bind us to the earth,Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearthOf noble natures, of the gloomy days,Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways10Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boonFor simple sheep; and such are daffodilsWith the green world they live in; and clear rillsThat for themselves a cooling covert make'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:And such too is the grandeur of the dooms20We have imagined for the mighty dead;All lovely tales that we have heard or read:An endless fountain of immortal drink,Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essencesFor one short hour; no, even as the treesThat whisper round a temple become soonDear as the temple's self, so does the moon,The passion poesy, glories infinite,Haunt us till they become a cheering light30Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,They alway must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that IWill trace the story of Endymion.The very music of the name has goneInto my being, and each pleasant sceneIs growing fresh before me as the greenOf our own vallies: so I will beginNow while I cannot hear the city's din;40Now while the early budders are just new,And run in mazes of the youngest hueAbout old forests; while the willow trailsIts delicate amber; and the dairy pailsBring home increase of milk. And, as the yearGrows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steerMy little boat, for many quiet hours,With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.Many and many a verse I hope to write,Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,50Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the beesHum about globes of clover and sweet peas,I must be near the middle of my story.O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,With universal tinge of sober gold,Be all about me when I make an end.And now at once, adventuresome, I sendMy herald thought into a wilderness:There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress60My uncertain path with green, that I may speedEasily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspreadA mighty forest; for the moist earth fedSo plenteously all weed-hidden rootsInto o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keepA lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,Never again saw he the happy pens70Whither his brethren, bleating with content,Over the hills at every nightfall went.Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,That not one fleecy lamb which thus did severFrom the white flock, but pass'd unworriedBy angry wolf, or pard with prying head,Until it came to some unfooted plainsWhere fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gainsWho thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,80And ivy banks; all leading pleasantlyTo a wide lawn, whence one could only seeStems thronging all around between the swellOf turf and slanting branches: who could tellThe freshness of the space of heaven above,Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a doveWould often beat its wings, and often tooA little cloud would move across the blue.

Full in the middle of this pleasantnessThere stood a marble altar, with a tress90Of flowers budded newly; and the dewHad taken fairy phantasies to strewDaisies upon the sacred sward last eve,And so the dawned light in pomp receive.For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fireMade every eastern cloud a silvery pyreOf brightness so unsullied, that thereinA melancholy spirit well might winOblivion, and melt out his essence fineInto the winds: rain-scented eglantine100Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;The lark was lost in him; cold springs had runTo warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;Man's voice was on the mountains; and the massOf nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, with joyful cries, there spedA troop of little children garlanded;110Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of holiday: nor had they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which ev'n thenFill'd out its voice, and died away again.Within a little space again it gaveIts airy swellings, with a gentle wave,To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breakingThrough copse-clad vallies,–ere their death, o'ertakingThe surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.121

And now, as deep into the wood as weMight mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered lightFair faces and a rush of garments white,Plainer and plainer shewing, till at lastInto the widest alley they all past,Making directly for the woodland altar.O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulterIn telling of this goodly company,Of their old piety, and of their glee:130But let a portion of ethereal dewFall on my head, and presently unmewMy soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.

Leading the way, young damsels danced along,Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;Each having a white wicker over brimm'dWith April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looksAs may be read of in Arcadian books;140Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,When the great deity, for earth too ripe,Let his divinity o'er-flowing dieIn music, through the vales of Thessaly:Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,And some kept up a shrilly mellow soundWith ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,Now coming from beneath the forest trees,A venerable priest full soberly,Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye150Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,And after him his sacred vestments swept.From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;And in his left he held a basket fullOf all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter stillThan Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth160Of winter hoar. Then came another crowdOf shepherds, lifting in due time aloudTheir share of the ditty. After them appear'd,Up-followed by a multitude that rear'dTheir voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,Easily rolling so as scarce to marThe freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:Who stood therein did seem of great renownAmong the throng. His youth was fully blown,Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;170And, for those simple times, his garments wereA chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,Was hung a silver bugle, and betweenHis nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,To common lookers on, like one who dream'dOf idleness in groves Elysian:But there were some who feelingly could scanA lurking trouble in his nether lip,And see that oftentimes the reins would slip180Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,Of logs piled solemnly.–Ah, well-a-day,Why should our young Endymion pine away!

Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'dTo sudden veneration: women meekBeckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheekOf virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.Endymion too, without a forest peer,190Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,Among his brothers of the mountain chase.In midst of all, the venerable priestEyed them with joy from greatest to the least,And, after lifting up his aged hands,Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:Whether descended from beneath the rocksThat overtop your mountains; whether comeFrom vallies where the pipe is never dumb;200Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chargeNibble their fill at ocean's very marge,Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlornBy the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:Mothers and wives! who day by day prepareThe scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;And all ye gentle girls who foster upUdderless lambs, and in a little cup210Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:Yea, every one attend! for in good truthOur vows are wanting to our great god Pan.Are not our lowing heifers sleeker thanNight-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plainsSpeckled with countless fleeces? Have not rainsGreen'd over April's lap? No howling sadSickens our fearful ewes; and we have hadGreat bounty from Endymion our lord.The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd220His early song against yon breezy sky,That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spireOf teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sodWith wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.Now while the earth was drinking it, and whileBay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light230Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

"O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hangFrom jagged trunks, and overshadowethEternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, deathOf unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dressTheir ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearkenThe dreary melody of bedded reeds–In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds240The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;Bethinking thee, how melancholy lothThou wast to lose fair Syrinx–do thou now,By thy love's milky brow!By all the trembling mazes that she ran,Hear us, great Pan!

"O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtlesPassion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,What time thou wanderest at eventideThrough sunny meadows, that outskirt the side250Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whomBroad leaved fig trees even now foredoomTheir ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted beesTheir golden honeycombs; our village leasTheir fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn;The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,To sing for thee; low creeping strawberriesTheir summer coolness; pent up butterfliesTheir freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding yearAll its completions–be quickly near,260By every wind that nods the mountain pine,O forester divine!

"Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr fliesFor willing service; whether to surpriseThe squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;Or upward ragged precipices flitTo save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;Or by mysterious enticement drawBewildered shepherds to their path again;Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,270And gather up all fancifullest shellsFor thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,The while they pelt each other on the crownWith silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown–By all the echoes that about thee ring,Hear us, O satyr king!

"O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,While ever and anon to his shorn peers280A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,That come a swooning over hollow grounds,And wither drearily on barren moors:Dread opener of the mysterious doorsLeading to universal knowledge–see,Great son of Dryope,290The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows!

Be still the unimaginable lodgeFor solitary thinkings; such as dodgeConception to the very bourne of heaven,Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,That spreading in this dull and clodded earthGives it a touch ethereal–a new birth:Be still a symbol of immensity;A firmament reflected in a sea;300An element filling the space between;An unknown–but no more: we humbly screenWith uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,And giving out a shout most heaven rending,Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan,Upon thy Mount Lycean!

Even while they brought the burden to a close,A shout from the whole multitude arose,That lingered in the air like dying rollsOf abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals310Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,Young companies nimbly began dancingTo the swift treble pipe, and humming string.Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenlyTo tunes forgotten–out of memory:Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bredThermopylæ its heroes–not yet dead,But in old marbles ever beautiful.High genitors, unconscious did they cull320Time's sweet first-fruits–they danc'd to weariness,And then in quiet circles did they pressThe hillock turf, and caught the latter endOf some strange history, potent to sendA young mind from its bodily tenement.Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intentOn either side; pitying the sad deathOf Hyacinthus, when the cruel breathOf Zephyr slew him,–Zephyr penitent,Who now, ere Phœbus mounts the firmament,330Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.The archers too, upon a wider plain,Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raftBranch down sweeping from a tall ash top,Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelopeThose who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling kneeAnd frantic gape of lonely Niobe,Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely youngWere dead and gone, and her caressing tongue340Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,And very, very deadliness did nipHer motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad moodBy one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,Uplifting his strong bow into the air,Many might after brighter visions stare:After the Argonauts, in blind amazeTossing about on Neptune's restless ways,Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,There shot a golden splendour far and wide,350Spangling those million poutings of the brineWith quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shineFrom the exaltation of Apollo's bow;A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,Might turn their steps towards the sober ringWhere sat Endymion and the aged priest'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'dThe silvery setting of their mortal star.There they discours'd upon the fragile bar360That keeps us from our homes ethereal;And what our duties there: to nightly callVesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;To summon all the downiest clouds togetherFor the sun's purple couch; to emulateIn ministring the potent rule of fateWith speed of fire-tailed exhalations;To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who consSweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,A world of other unguess'd offices.370Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,Into Elysium; vieing to rehearseEach one his own anticipated bliss.One felt heart-certain that he could not missHis quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endowsHer lips with music for the welcoming.Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:380Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;And, ever after, through those regions beHis messenger, his little Mercury,Some were athirst in soul to see againTheir fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaignIn times long past; to sit with them, and talkOf all the chances in their earthly walk;Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous storesOf happiness, to when upon the moors,390Benighted, close they huddled from the cold,And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-toldTheir fond imaginations,–saving himWhose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim,Endymion: yet hourly had he strivenTo hide the cankering venom, that had rivenHis fainting recollections. Now indeedHis senses had swoon'd off: he did not heedThe sudden silence, or the whispers low,Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,400Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms,Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms:But in the self-same fixed trance he kept,Like one who on the earth had never slept.Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man,Frozen in that old tale Arabian.

Who whispers him so pantingly and close?Peona, his sweet sister: of all those,His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made,And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade410A yielding up, a cradling on her care.Her eloquence did breathe away the curse:She led him, like some midnight spirit nurseOf happy changes in emphatic dreams,Along a path between two little streams,–Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow,From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slowFrom stumbling over stumps and hillocks small;Until they came to where these streamlets fall,With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush,420Into a river, clear, brimful, and flushWith crystal mocking of the trees and sky.A little shallop, floating there hard by,Pointed its beak over the fringed bank;And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank,And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,–Peona guiding, through the water straight,Towards a bowery island opposite;Which gaining presently, she steered lightInto a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,430Where nested was an arbour, overwoveBy many a summer's silent fingering;To whose cool bosom she was used to bringHer playmates, with their needle broidery,And minstrel memories of times gone by.

So she was gently glad to see him laidUnder her favourite bower's quiet shade,On her own couch, new made of flower leaves,Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheavesWhen last the sun his autumn tresses shook,440And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took.Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest:But, ere it crept upon him, he had prestPeona's busy hand against his lips,And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tipsIn tender pressure. And as a willow keepsA patient watch over the stream that creepsWindingly by it, so the quiet maidHeld her in peace: so that a whispering bladeOf grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling450Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustlingAmong sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mindTill it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'dRestraint! imprisoned liberty! great keyTo golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,Echoing grottos, full of tumbling wavesAnd moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world460Of silvery enchantment!–who, upfurl'dBeneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,But renovates and lives?–Thus, in the bower,Endymion was calm'd to life again.Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain,He said: "I feel this thine endearing loveAll through my bosom: thou art as a doveTrembling its closed eyes and sleeked wingsAbout me; and the pearliest dew not bringsSuch morning incense from the fields of May,470As do those brighter drops that twinkling strayFrom those kind eyes,–the very home and hauntOf sisterly affection. Can I wantAught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fearsThat, any longer, I will pass my daysAlone and sad. No, I will once more raiseMy voice upon the mountain-heights; once moreMake my horn parley from their foreheads hoar:Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll480Around the breathed boar: again I'll pollThe fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow:And, when the pleasant sun is getting low,Again I'll linger in a sloping meadTo hear the speckled thrushes, and see feedOur idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet,And, if thy lute is here, softly intreatMy soul to keep in its resolved course."

Hereat Peona, in their silver source,Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim,490And took a lute, from which there pulsing cameA lively prelude, fashioning the wayIn which her voice should wander. 'Twas a layMore subtle cadenced, more forest wildThan Dryope's lone lulling of her child;And nothing since has floated in the airSo mournful strange. Surely some influence rareWent, spiritual, through the damsel's hand;For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'dThe quick invisible strings, even though she saw500Endymion's spirit melt away and thawBefore the deep intoxication.But soon she came, with sudden burst, uponHer self-possession–swung the lute aside,And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hideThat thou dost know of things mysterious,Immortal, starry; such alone could thusWeigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aughtOffensive to the heavenly powers? CaughtA Paphian dove upon a message sent?510Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent,Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seenHer naked limbs among the alders green;And that, alas! is death. No, I can traceSomething more high perplexing in thy face!"

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand,And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so blandAnd merry in our meadows? How is this?Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss!–Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change520Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange?Or more complete to overwhelm surmise?Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize,That toiling years would put within my grasp,That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gaspNo man e'er panted for a mortal love.So all have set my heavier grief aboveThese things which happen. Rightly have they done:I, who still saw the horizontal sunHeave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world,530Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'dMy spear aloft, as signal for the chace–I, who, for very sport of heart, would raceWith my own steed from Araby; pluck downA vulture from his towery perching; frownA lion into growling, loth retire–To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire,And sink thus low! but I will ease my breastOf secret grief, here in this bowery nest.

"This river does not see the naked sky,540Till it begins to progress silverlyAround the western border of the wood,Whence, from a certain spot, its winding floodSeems at the distance like a crescent moon:And in that nook, the very pride of June,Had I been used to pass my weary eves;The rather for the sun unwilling leavesSo dear a picture of his sovereign power,And I could witness his most kingly hour,When he doth lighten up the golden reins,550And paces leisurely down amber plainsHis snorting four. Now when his chariot lastIts beams against the zodiac-lion cast,There blossom'd suddenly a magic bedOf sacred ditamy, and poppies red:At which I wondered greatly, knowing wellThat but one night had wrought this flowery spell;And, sitting down close by, began to museWhat it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus,In passing here, his owlet pinions shook;560Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptookHer ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth,Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealthCame not by common growth. Thus on I thought,Until my head was dizzy and distraught.Moreover, through the dancing poppies stoleA breeze, most softly lulling to my soul;And shaping visions all about my sightOf colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light;The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim:571And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tellThe enchantment that afterwards befel?Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dreamThat never tongue, although it overteemWith mellow utterance, like a cavern spring,Could figure out and to conception bringAll I beheld and felt. Methought I layWatching the zenith, where the milky wayAmong the stars in virgin splendour pours;580And travelling my eye, until the doorsOf heaven appear'd to open for my flight,I became loth and fearful to alightFrom such high soaring by a downward glance:So kept me stedfast in that airy trance,Spreading imaginary pinions wide.When, presently, the stars began to glide,And faint away, before my eager view:At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue,And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge;590And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emergeThe loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'erA shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soarSo passionately bright, my dazzled soulCommingling with her argent spheres did rollThrough clear and cloudy, even when she wentAt last into a dark and vapoury tent–Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed trainOf planets all were in the blue again.To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd600My sight right upward: but it was quite dazedBy a bright something, sailing down apace,Making me quickly veil my eyes and face:Again I look'd, and, O ye deities,Who from Olympus watch our destinies!Whence that completed form of all completeness?Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O whereHast thou a symbol of her golden hair?Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;610Not–thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shunSuch follying before thee–yet she had,Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;The which were blended in, I know not how,With such a paradise of lips and eyes,Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings620And plays about its fancy, till the stingsOf human neighbourhood envenom all.Unto what awful power shall I call?To what high fane?–Ah! see her hovering feet,More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweetThan those of sea-born Venus, when she roseFrom out her cradle shell. The wind out-blowsHer scarf into a fluttering pavilion;'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a millionOf little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,630Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,Handfuls of daisies."–"Endymion, how strange!Dream within dream!"–"She took an airy range,And then, towards me, like a very maid,Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much;Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,Yet held my recollection, even as oneWho dives three fathoms where the waters runGurgling in beds of coral: for anon,640I felt upmounted in that regionWhere falling stars dart their artillery forth,And eagles struggle with the buffeting northThat balances the heavy meteor-stone;–Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone,But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky.Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high,And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd;Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'dHuge dens and caverns in a mountain's side:650There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'dTo faint once more by looking on my bliss–I was distracted; madly did I kissThe wooing arms which held me, and did giveMy eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live,To take in draughts of life from the gold fountOf kind and passionate looks; to count, and countThe moments, by some greedy help that seem'dA second self, that each might be redeem'dAnd plunder'd of its load of blessedness.660Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to pressHer very cheek against my crowned lip,And, at that moment, felt my body dipInto a warmer air: a moment more,Our feet were soft in flowers. There was storeOf newest joys upon that alp. SometimesA scent of violets, and blossoming limes,Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells,Made delicate from all white-flower bells;And once, above the edges of our nest,670An arch face peep'd,–an Oread as I guess'd.

"Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd meIn midst of all this heaven? Why not see,Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark,And stare them from me? But no, like a sparkThat needs must die, although its little beamReflects upon a diamond, my sweet dreamFell into nothing–into stupid sleep.And so it was, until a gentle creep,A careful moving caught my waking ears,680And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears,My clenched hands;–for lo! the poppies hungDew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sungA heavy ditty, and the sullen dayHad chidden herald Hesperus away,With leaden looks: the solitary breezeBluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teazeWith wayward melancholy; and I thought,Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it broughtFaint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus!–690Away I wander'd–all the pleasant huesOf heaven and earth had faded: deepest shadesWere deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny gladesWere full of pestilent light; our taintless rillsSeem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gillsOf dying fish; the vermeil rose had blownIn frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grownLike spiked aloe. If an innocent birdBefore my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'dIn little journeys, I beheld in it700A disguis'd demon, missioned to knitMy soul with under darkness; to enticeMy stumblings down some monstrous precipice:Therefore I eager followed, and did curseThe disappointment. Time, that aged nurse,Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven!These things, with all their comfortings, are givenTo my down-sunken hours, and with thee,Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing seaOf weary life."710Thus ended he, and bothSat silent: for the maid was very lothTo answer; feeling well that breathed wordsWould all be lost, unheard, and vain as swordsAgainst the enchased crocodile, or leapsOf grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps,And wonders; struggles to devise some blame;To put on such a look as would say,ShameOn this poor weakness!but, for all her strife,She could as soon have crush'd away the life720From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause,She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause?This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas!That one who through this middle earth should passMost like a sojourning demi-god, and leaveHis name upon the harp-string, should achieveNo higher bard than simple maidenhood,Singing alone, and fearfully,–how the bloodLeft his young cheek; and how he used to strayHe knew not where; and how he would say,nay,730If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love;What could it be but love? How a ring-doveLet fall a sprig of yew tree in his path;And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe,The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses;And then the ballad of his sad life closesWith sighs, and an alas!–Endymion!Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,–anonAmong the winds at large–that all may hearken!Although, before the crystal heavens darken,740I watch and dote upon the silver lakesPictur'd in western cloudiness, that takesThe semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands,Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strandsWith horses prancing o'er them, palacesAnd towers of amethyst,–would I so teaseMy pleasant days, because I could not mountInto those regions? The Morphean fountOf that fine element that visions, dreams,And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams750Into its airy channels with so subtle,So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle,Circled a million times within the spaceOf a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace,A tinting of its quality: how lightMust dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slightThan the mere nothing that engenders them!Then wherefore sully the entrusted gemOf high and noble life with thoughts so sick?Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick760For nothing but a dream?" Hereat the youthLook'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruthWas in his plaited brow: yet, his eyelidsWidened a little, as when Zephyr bidsA little breeze to creep between the fansOf careless butterflies: amid his painsHe seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew,Full palatable; and a colour grewUpon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake.

"Peona! ever have I long'd to slake770My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base,No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlaceThe stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd–Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'dAnd sullenly drifting: yet my higher hopeIs of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope,To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,780Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven! FoldA rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stressOf music's kiss impregnates the free winds,And with a sympathetic touch unbindsEolian magic from their lucid wombs:Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave790Round every spot were trod Apollo's foot;Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,Where long ago a giant battle was;And, from the turf, a lullaby doth passIn every place where infant Orpheus slept.Feel we these things?–that moment have we steptInto a sort of oneness, and our stateIs like a floating spirit's. But there areRicher entanglements, enthralments farMore self-destroying, leading, by degrees,800To the chief intensity: the crown of theseIs made of love and friendship, and sits highUpon the forehead of humanity.All its more ponderous and bulky worthIs friendship, whence there ever issues forthA steady splendour; but at the tip-top,There hangs by unseen film, an orbed dropOf light, and that is love: its influence,Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,At which we start and fret; till in the end,810Melting into its radiance, we blend,Mingle, and so become a part of it,–Nor with aught else can our souls interknitSo wingedly: when we combine therewith,Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith,And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,That men, who might have tower'd in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of time820All chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium.And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,Than speak against this ardent listlessness:For I have ever thought that it might blessThe world with benefits unknowingly;As does the nightingale, upperched high,And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves–830She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceivesHow tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.Just so may love, although 'tis understoodThe mere commingling of passionate breath,Produce more than our searching witnesseth:What I know not: but who, of men, can tellThat flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swellTo melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,840The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,If human souls did never kiss and greet?

"Now, if this earthly love has power to makeMen's being mortal, immortal; to shakeAmbition from their memories, and brimTheir measure of content; what merest whim,Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,To one, who keeps within his stedfast aimA love immortal, an immortal too.850Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true,And never can be born of atomiesThat buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure,My restless spirit never could endureTo brood so long upon one luxury,Unless it did, though fearfully, espyA hope beyond the shadow of a dream.My sayings will the less obscured seem,When I have told thee how my waking sight860Has made me scruple whether that same nightWas pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged browsBushes and trees do lean all round athwart,And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glidePast them, but he must brush on every side.Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell,870Far as the slabbed margin of a well,Whose patient level peeps its crystal eyeRight upward, through the bushes, to the sky.Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks setLike vestal primroses, but dark velvetEdges them round, and they have golden pits:'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slitsIn a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,When all above was faint with mid-day heat.And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,880I'd bubble up the water through a reed;So reaching back to boy-hood: make me shipsOf moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune beOf their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,I sat contemplating the figures wildOf o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through.Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flewA cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;890So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiverThe happy chance: so happy, I was fainTo follow it upon the open plain,And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!A wonder, fair as any I have told–The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leapThrough the cool depth.–It moved as if to flee–I started up, when lo! refreshfully,There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,900Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,Bathing my spirit in a new delight.Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of blissAlone preserved me from the drear abyssOf death, for the fair form had gone again.Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us, like the gnawing slothOn the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth,'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.910How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisureOf weary days, made deeper exquisite,By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill:And a whole age of lingering moments creptSluggishly by, ere more contentment sweptAway at once the deadly yellow spleen.Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;Once more been tortured with renewed life.920When last the wintry gusts gave over strifeWith the conquering sun of spring, and left the skiesWarm and serene, but yet with moistened eyesIn pity of the shatter'd infant buds,–That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd,Chatted with thee, and many days exil'dAll torment from my breast;–'twas even then,Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the denOf helpless discontent,–hurling my lance930From place to place, and following at chance,At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuckIn the middle of a brook,–whose silver rambleDown twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did laveThe nether sides of mossy stones and rock,–'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mockIts own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,940Hung a lush scene of drooping weeds, and spreadThick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home."Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?"Said I, low voic'd: "Ah, whither! 'Tis the grotOf Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,Doth her resign; and where her tender handsShe dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,And babbles thorough silence, till her witsAre gone in tender madness, and anon,950Faints into sleep, with many a dying toneOf sadness. O that she would take my vows,And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,And weave them dyingly–send honey-whispersRound every leaf, that all those gentle lispersMay sigh my love unto her pitying!O charitable echo! hear, and singThis ditty to her!–tell her"–so I stay'd960My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.Salt tears were coming, when I heard my nameMost fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came:"Endymion! the cave is secreterThan the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stirNo sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noiseOf thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloysAnd trembles through my labyrinthine hair."970At that oppress'd I hurried in.–Ah! whereAre those swift moments? Whither are they fled?I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wedSorrow the way to death; but patientlyBear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;And come instead demurest meditation,To occupy me wholly, and to fashionMy pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.No more will I count over, link by link,My chain of grief: no longer strive to find980A half-forgetfulness in mountain windBlustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;What a calm round of hours shall make my days.There is a paly flame of hope that playsWhere'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught–And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,Already, a more healthy countenance?By this the sun is setting; we may chanceMeet some of our near-dwellers with my car."990

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a starThrough autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.

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 tearsHave become indolent; but touching thine,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 fades10Into some backward corner of the brain;Yet, in our very souls, we feel amainThe close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!Swart planet in the universe of deeds!Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breedsAlong the pebbled shore of memory!Many old rotten-timber'd boats there beUpon thy vaporous bosom, magnifiedTo goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,20And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.But wherefore this? What care, though owl did flyAbout the great Athenian admiral's mast?What care, though striding Alexander pastThe Indus with his Macedonian numbers?Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbersThe glutted Cyclops, what care?–Juliet leaningAmid her window-flowers,–sighing,–weaningTenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,Doth more avail than these: the silver flow30Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,Are things to brood on with more ardencyThan the death-day of empires. FearfullyMust such conviction come upon his head,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 drearThan to be crush'd, in striving to uprear40Love'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 sinceThe day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrowsCome 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;50Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokesOf 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 fingeringStems the upbursting cold: a wild rose treePavilions him in bloom, and he doth seeA bud which snares his fancy: lo! but nowHe plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;60And, in the middle, there is softly pightA golden butterfly; upon whose wingsThere 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:Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bandsHis limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hiesDazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;70And like a new-born spirit did he passThrough the green evening quiet in the sun,O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreamsThe summer time away. One track unseamsA wooded cleft, and, far away, the blueOf 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 cadences80Melting to silence, when upon the breezeSome holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feetWent swift beneath the merry-winged guide,Until it reached a splashing fountain's sideThat, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'dUnto the temperate air: then high it soar'd,And, downward, suddenly began to dip,As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sipThe crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch90Most delicate, as though afraid to smutchEven with mealy gold the waters clear.But, at that very touch, to disappearSo fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,Endymion sought around, and shook each bedOf covert flowers in vain; and then he flungHimself along the grass. What gentle tongue,What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?It was a nymph uprisen to the breastIn the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood100'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.To him her dripping hand she softly kist,And anxiously began to plait and twistHer ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth!Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,The bitterness of love: too long indeed,Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weedThy soul of care, by heavens, I would offerAll the bright riches of my crystal cofferTo Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,110Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that drawsA virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sandsTawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far landsBy my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,My charming rod, my potent river spells;Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cupMeander gave me,–for I bubbled upTo fainting creatures in a desert wild.120But woe is me, I am but as a childTo gladden thee; and all I dare to say,Is, that I pity thee; that on this dayI've been thy guide; that thou must wander farIn other regions, past the scanty barTo mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'enFrom 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!130I have a ditty for my hollow cell."

Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze,Who brooded o'er the water in amaze:The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its poolLay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,And fish were dimpling, as if good nor illHad fallen out that hour. The wanderer,Holding his forehead, to keep off the burrOf smothering fancies, patiently sat down;140And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frownGlow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encampsTo take a fancied city of delight,O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his,After long toil and travelling, to missThe 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-head of doubt150That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: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,All human; bearing in themselves this good,That they are still the air, the subtle food,To make us feel existence, and to shewHow quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,160Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,There is no depth to strike in: I can seeNought earthly worth my compassing; so standUpon a misty, jutting head of land–Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,When mad Eurydice is listening to't;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 dove170Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,Glance but one little beam of temper'd lightInto my bosom, that the dreadful mightAnd tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd!Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd,Would give a pang to jealous misery,Worse than the torment's self: but rather tieLarge wings upon my shoulders, and point outMy love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout180Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prowNot to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.O be propitious, nor severely deemMy madness impious; for, by all the starsThat tend thy bidding, I do think the barsThat kept my spirit in are burst–that IAm sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep190Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,How lithe! When this thy chariot attainsIts airy goal, haply some bower veilsThose twilight eyes?–Those eyes!–my spirit fails–Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping airWill gulph me–help!"–At this with madden'd stare,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 borne200A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moanHad more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth: "Descend,Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bendInto the sparry hollows of the world!Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'dAs from thy threshold; day by day hast beenA little lower than the chilly sheenOf icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine armsInto the deadening ether that still charms210Their marble being: now, as deep profoundAs those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'dWith immortality, who fears to followWhere airy voices lead: so through the hollow,The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"

He heard but the last words, nor could contendOne moment in reflection: for he fledInto the fearful deep, to hide his headFrom the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite221To 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.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,230Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roofCurves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,It seems an angry lightning, and doth hissFancy into belief: anon it leadsThrough winding passages, where sameness breedsVexing conceptions of some sudden change;Whether to silver grots, or giant rangeOf sapphire columns, or fantastic bridgeAthwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge240Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneathTowers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seethA hundred waterfalls, whose voices comeBut as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numbHis bosom grew, when first he, far away,Descried an orbed diamond, set to frayOld darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sunUprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stunCame the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,He saw not fiercer wonders–past the wit250Of any spirit to tell, but one of thoseWho, when this planet's sphering time doth close,Will be its high remembrancers: who they?The mighty ones who have made eternal dayFor Greece and England. While astonishmentWith deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he wentInto a marble gallery, passing throughA mimic temple, so complete and trueIn sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'dTo search it inwards; whence far off appear'd,260Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eyeDown sidelong aisles, and into niches old.And when, more near against the marble coldHe had touch'd his forehead, he began to threadAll courts and passages, where silence deadRous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint270Himself with every mystery, and awe;Till, weary, he sat down before the mawOf a wide outlet, fathomless and dimTo wild uncertainty and shadows grim.There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before,And thoughts of self came on, how crude and soreThe 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,280Into the bosom of a hated thing.

What misery most drowningly doth singIn lone Endymion's ear, now he has caughtThe goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!He cannot see the heavens, nor the flowOf rivers, nor hill-flowers running wildIn pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest290Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;But far from such companionship to wearAn 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?"No! loudly echoed times innumerable.At which he straightway started, and 'gan tellHis paces back into the temple's chief;Warming and growing strong in the belief300Of help from Dian: so that when againHe caught her airy form, thus did he plain,Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chasteOf river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,Where with thy silver bow and arrows keenArt thou now forested? O woodland Queen,What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?Where dost thou listen to the wide halloosOf thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark treeGlimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be,310'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost tasteFreedom as none can taste it, nor dost wasteThy loveliness in dismal elements;But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,There livest blissfully. Ah, if to theeIt feels Elysian, how rich to me,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–320O let me slake it at the running springs!Upon my car 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?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,330O think how I should love a bed of flowers!–Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"

Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleapHis destiny, alert he stood: but whenObstinate silence came heavily again,Feeling about for its old couch of spaceAnd airy cradle, lowly bow'd his faceDesponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill340To its old channel, or a swollen tideTo margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crownsUp heaping through the slab: refreshment drownsItself, and strives its own delights to hide–Nor in one spot alone; the floral prideIn a long whispering birth enchanted grewBefore his footsteps; as when heav'd anewOld 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.351

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastesOne moment with his hand among the sweets:Onward he goes–he stops–his bosom beatsAs plainly in his ear, as the faint charmOf 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 blow360Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;Or than the west, made jealous by the smilesOf thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyreTo seas Ionian and Tyrian.

O did he ever live, that lonely man,Who lov'd–and music slew not? 'Tis the pestOf love, that fairest joys give most unrest;That things of delicate and tenderest worthAre swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth,By one consuming flame: it doth immerse370And suffocate true blessings in a curse.Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,Is miserable. 'Twas even so with thisDew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear;First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,Vanish'd in elemental passion.

And down some swart abysm he had gone,Had not a heavenly guide benignant ledTo where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his headBrushing, awakened: then the sounds again380Went noiseless as a passing noontide rainOver a bower, where little space he stood;For as the sunset peeps into a woodSo saw he panting light, and towards it wentThrough winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.

After a thousand mazes overgone,At last, with sudden step, he came uponA chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high,390Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,And more of beautiful and strange beside:For on a silken couch of rosy pride,In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youthOf fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: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 curve400Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerveOf knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;But rather, giving them to the filled sightOfficiously. Sideway his face repos'dOn one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd,By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouthTo slumbery pout; just as the morning southDisparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,Four lily stalks did their white honours wedTo make a coronal; and round him grew410All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,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;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.420One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;And, ever and anon, uprose to lookAt the youth's slumber; while another tookA willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,And shook it on his hair; another flewIn through the woven roof, and fluttering-wiseRain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.

At these enchantments, and yet many more,The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er;430Until, impatient in embarrassment,He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading wentTo that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway,Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper dayThou art a wanderer, and thy presence hereMight seem unholy, be of happy cheer!For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour,When some ethereal and high-favouring donorPresents immortal bowers to mortal sense;As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence440Was I in no wise startled. So reclineUpon 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 fearsWere high about Pomona: here is cream,Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'dFor the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd450By any touch, a bunch of blooming plumsReady 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 knowOf all these things around us." He did so,Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre;And thus: "I need not any hearing tireBy telling how the sea-born goddess pin'dFor a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind460Him all in all unto her doting self.Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf,He was content to let her amorous pleaFaint through his careless arms; content to seeAn unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet;Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,Lay sorrowing; when every tear was bornOf diverse passion; when her lips and eyesWere clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs470Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.Hush! no exclaim–yet, justly mightst thou callCurses upon his head.–I was half glad,But my poor mistress went distract and mad,When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flewTo Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drewImmortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'dEach summer time to life. Lo! this is he,That same Adonis, safe in the privacy480Of this still region all his winter-sleep.Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weepOver his waned corse, the tremulous showerHeal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power,Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:The which she fills with visions, and doth dressIn all this quiet luxury; and hath setUs young immortals, without any let,To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd,Even to a moment's filling up, and fast490She scuds with summer breezes, to pant throughThe first long kiss, warm firstling, to renewEmbower'd sports in Cytherea's isle.Look! how those winged listeners all this whileStand anxious: see! behold!"–This clamant wordBroke through the careful silence; for they heardA rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'dPigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter'd,The while one hand, that erst upon his thighLay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and gradually500Up to his forehead. Then there was a humOf sudden voices, echoing, "Come! come!Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk'dUnto the clover-sward, and she has talk'dFull soothingly to every nested finch:Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinchTo 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 over head their little fists510In backward yawns. But all were soon alive:For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, diveIn nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair,So from the arbour roof down swell'd an airOdorous and enlivening; making allTo laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly callFor their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed greenDisparted, and far upward could be seenBlue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,Spun off a drizzling dew,–which falling chill521On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him stillNestle 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,Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd:Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'dA tumult to his heart, and a new lifeInto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,530But for her comforting! unhappy sight,But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can writeOf these first minutes? The unchariest museTo embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.

Back to IndexNext