Now Morning from her orient chamber came,

And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;

Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;

Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,

And after parting beds of simple flowers,

By many streams a little lake did fill,

Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,

And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright

Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;

Whose silken fins, and golden scales light

Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow

There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,

And oar'd himself along with majesty;

Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show

Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,

And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle

That in that fairest lake had placed been,

I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;

Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen

For sure so fair a place was never seen,

Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye

It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen

Of the bright waters; or as when on high,

Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky.

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously

Slopings of verdure through the glassy tide,

Which, as it were in gentle amity,

Rippled delighted up the flowery side;

As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,

Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!

Haply it was the workings of its pride,

In strife to throw upon the shore a gem

Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem.

O Peace! and dost thou with thy presence bless

The dwellings of this war-surrounded isle;

Soothing with placid brow our late distress,

Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?

The sweet companions that await on thee;

Complete my joy — let not my first wish fail,

Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be,

With England's happiness proclaim Europa's liberty.

O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see

That thou must shelter in thy former state;

Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free;

Give thy kings law — leave not uncurbed the great;

So with the honors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!

Infatuate Britons, will you still proclaim

His memory, your direst, foulest shame?

Nor patriots revere?

Ah! when I hear each traitorous lying bell,

'Tis gallant Sydney's, Russell's, Vane's sad knell,

That pains my wounded ear.

Stay, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,

And let me see thy sparkling eye,

Oh brush not yet the pearl-strung spray

Nor bow thy pretty head to fly.

Stay while I tell thee, fluttering thing,

That thou of love an emblem art,

Yes! patient plume thy little wing,

Whilst I my thoughts to thee impart.

When summer nights the dews bestow,

And summer suns enrich the day,

Thy notes the blossoms charm to blow,

Each opes delighted at thy lay.

So when in youth the eye's dark glance

Speaks pleasure from its circle bright,

The tones of love our joys enhance

And make superior each delight.

And when bleak storms resistless rove,

And ev'ry rural bliss destroy,

Nought comforts then the leafless grove

But thy soft note — its only joy —

E'en so the words of love beguile

When pleasure's tree no flower bears,

And draw a soft endearing smile

Amid the gloom of grief and tears.

Fill for me a brimming bowl

And let me in it drown my soul

To banish Women from my mind

For I want not the stream inspiring

That fills the mind with fond desiring,

But I want as deep a draught

As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd;

From my despairing heart to charm

The image of the fairest form

That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,

That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.

In vain! away I cannot chace

The melting softness of that face,

The beaminess of those bright eyes,

That breast — earth's only paradise.

My sight will never more be blest;

For all I see has lost its zest

Nor with delight can I explore

The classic page, or muse's lore.

Had she but known how beat my heart,

And with one smile reliev'd its smart,

I should have felt a sweet relief,

I should have felt " the joy of grief."

Yet as a Tuscan mid the snow

Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,

Even so for ever shall she be

The halo of my memory.

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove

Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,

On pinions that naught moves but pure delight,

So fled thy soul into the realms above,

Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright

Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove.

There thou or joinest the immortal quire

In melodies that even heaven fair

Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire

Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air

On holy message sent — what pleasure's higher?

Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

Byron, how sweetly sad thy melody!

Attuning still the soul to tenderness,

As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,

Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,

Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.

Delightful thou thy griefs dost dress

With a bright halo, shining beamily,

As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,

Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,

Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,

And like fair veins in sable marble flow;

Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,

The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.

O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!

Dear child of sorrow — son of misery!

How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye,

Whence genius wildly flash'd, and high debate.

How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh

Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die

A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.

But this is past. Thou art among the stars

Of highest heaven to the rolling spheres

Thou sweetly singest naught thy hymning mars,

Above the ingrate world and human fears.

On earth the good man base detraction bars

From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?

Think you he nought but prison walls did see,

Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?

Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!

In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,

Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew

With daring Milton through the fields of air

To regions of his own his genius true

Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

When by my solitary hearth I sit,

When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye " flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,

Should sad Despondency my musings fright,

And frown, to drive fair cheerfulness away,

Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart

Chace him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,

And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy Cheer;

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow

Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,

From cruel parents, or relentless fair;

O let me think it is not quite in vain

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country's honour fade

O let me see our land retain her soul,

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed —

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,

Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!

With the base purple of a court oppress'd,

Bowing her head, and ready to expire

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings

That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,

Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,

Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

In thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state,

Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,

Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

Here Homer with his nervous arms

Strikes the twanging harp of war,

And even the western splendour warms,

While the trumpets sound afar

But, what creates the most intense surprise,

His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

Then, through thy temple wide, melodious swells

The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre

The soul delighted on each accent dwells, —

Enraptured dwells, — not daring to respire,

The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

'Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres;

Breathless the laurell'd peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,

And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring

The Passions — a terrific band —

And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords,

While from their master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee,

From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless chastity.

'Tis still! wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre

Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers

Float along the pleased air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from pleasure's lair —

Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,

But when thou joinest with the Nine,

And all the powers of song combine,

We listen here on earth

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I muse;

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?

Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea

And now! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping

To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,

Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;

And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,

The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you,

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean

Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,

( And blissful is he who such happiness finds, )

To possess but a sand in the hour of leisure,

In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,

When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?

And splendidly mark'd with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?

Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,

Embroidered with many a spring-peering flower?

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!

I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair

A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark 'tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,

When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute

Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,

Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;

Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;

Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,

Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,

I too have my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.

O come, my dear Emma! the rose is full blown,

The riches of Flora are lavishly strown,

The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,

The west is resplendently cloathed in beams.

O come! let us haste to the freshening shades,

The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades;

Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,

And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed,

Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head

There, beauteous Emma, I'll sit at thy feet,

While my story of love I enraptured repeat.

So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh,

Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh

Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee,

And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.

Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses?

That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses;

So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,

With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap

Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, —

Nature's observatory — whence the dell,

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep

'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leap

Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.

But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,

Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;

Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true

Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd,

Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.

The thought of this great partnership diffuses

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee

Past each horizon of fine poesy;

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float

'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted

But 'tis impossible; far different cares

Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs " ,

And hold my faculties so long in thrall,

That I am oft in doubt whether at all

I shall again see Phoebus in the morning

Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;

Or again witness what with thee I've seen,

The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,

After a night of some quaint jubilee

Which every elf and fay had come to see

When bright processions took their airy march

Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.

But might I now each passing moment give

To the coy muse, with me she would not live

In this dark city, nor would condescend

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,

Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic,

That often must have seen a poet frantic;

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,

Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,

With its own drooping buds, but very white;

Where on one side are covert branches hung,

'Mong which the nightingales have always sung

In leafy quiet where to pry, aloof,

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy,

To say " joy not too much in all that's bloomy.

Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid

To find a place where I may greet the maid —

Where we may soft humanity put on,

And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;

And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him

Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages

Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages

And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness,

And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness

To those who strove with the bright golden wing

Of genius, to flap away each sting

Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell

Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;

Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;

Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace,

High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

While to the rugged north our musing turns

We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.

Felton! without incitements such as these,

How vain for me the niggard muse to tease

For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,

And make " a sun-shine in a shady place "

For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,

Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd,

Whence gush the streams of song in happy hour

Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,

Just as the sun was from the east uprising;

Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream

To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.

I marvel much that thou hast never told

How, from a flower, into a fish of gold

Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem

A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;

And when thou first didst in that mirror trace

The placid features of a human face

That thou hast never told thy travels strange,

And all the wonders of the mazy range

O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;

Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprize

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses

When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,

O what wonders had been told

Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes that dance

In the midst of their own brightness;

In the very fane of lightness.

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,

Picture out each lovely meaning

In a dainty bend they lie,

Like to streaks across the sky,

Or the feathers from a crow,

Fallen on a bed of snow.

Of thy dark hair that extends

Into many graceful bends

As the leaves of hellebore

Turn to whence they sprung before.

And behind each ample curl

Peeps the richness of a pearl.

With a glossy waviness;

Full, and round like globes that rise

From the censer to the skies

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness

Of thy honied voice; the neatness

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd

With those beauties, scarce discern'd,

Kept with such sweet privacy,

That they seldom meet the eye

Of the little loves that fly

Round about with eager pry.

Saving when, with freshening lave,

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;

Like twin water lillies, born

In the coolness of the morn.

O, if thou hadst breathed then,

Now the Muses had been ten.

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher

Than twin sister of Thalia?

At least for ever, evermore,

Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry

Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been.

Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broidered, floating vest

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast;

Which, O heavens! I should see;

But that cruel destiny

Has placed a golden cuirass there;

Keeping secret what is fair.

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested

O'er which bend four milky plumes

Like the gentle lilly's blooms

Springing from a costly vase.

See with what a stately pace

Comes thine alabaster steed;

Servant of heroic deed!

O'er his loins, his trappings glow

Like the northern lights on snow.

Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!

Sign of the enchanter's death;

Bane of every wicked spell;

Silencer of dragon's yell.

Alas! thou this wilt never do

Thou art an enchantress too,

And wilt surely never spill

Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

I am as brisk

As a bottle of wisk-k

Ey and as nimble

As a milliner's thimble.

Give me women, wine and snuff

You may do so sans objection

Till the day of resurrection;

For bless my beard they aye shall be

My beloved trinity.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.

Not like the formal crest of latter days

But bending in a thousand graceful ways;

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,

Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood,

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,

To show this wonder of its gentle might.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

From the worn top of some old battlement

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take,

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,

And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests.

Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye,

And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

Leaps to the honors of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring

Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing?

No, no! this is far off: — then how shall I

Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

How sing the splendour of the revelries,

When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield,

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:

Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight

Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,

And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;

And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

When I think on thy noble countenance

Where never yet was ought more earthly seen

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

My daring steps: or if thy tender care,

Thus startled unaware,

Be jealous that the foot of other wight

Should madly follow that bright path of light

Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas; he will speak,

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

That I will follow with due reverence,

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.

Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope

To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers;

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;

His healthful spirit eager and awake

To feel the beauty of a silent eve,

Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave;

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,

And smiles at the far clearness all around,

Until his heart is well nigh over wound,

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean

And show their blossoms trim.

Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow

The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow,

Delighting much, to see it half at rest,

Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast

'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,

The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boat

Comes up with ripple, and with easy float,

And glides into a bed of water lillies:

Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies

Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.

Near to a little island's point they grew;

Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view

Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore

Went off in gentle windings to the hoar

And light blue mountains: but no breathing man

With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan

Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by

Objects that look'd out so invitingly

On either side. These, gentle Calidore

Greeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,

Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress;

Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings,

And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn,

Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn

Its long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around,

Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.

The little chapel with the cross above

Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,

That on the window spreads his feathers light,

And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades

Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades,

That through the dimness of their twilight show

Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow

Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems

Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing

The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught

A trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraught

With many joys for him: the warder's ken

Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:

Friends very dear to him he soon will see;

So pushes off his boat most eagerly,

And soon upon the lake he skims along,

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song;

Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:

His spirit flies before him so completely.

And now he turns a jutting point of land,

Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,

Before the point of his light shallop reaches

Those marble steps that through the water dip

Now over them he goes with hasty trip,

And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors

Of halls and corridors.

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things

That float about the air on azure wings,

Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang

Of clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang,

Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,

Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein;

While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis

They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss,

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand!

How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd!

Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,

While whisperings of affection

Made him delay to let their tender feet

Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet

From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent

And whether there were tears of languishment,

Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses,

He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses

With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye

All the soft luxury

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand,

Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers

Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers

And this he fondled with his happy cheek

As if for joy he would no further seek;

When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond

Came to his ear, like something from beyond

His present being: so he gently drew

His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,

From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,

Thank'd heaven that his joy was never ending;

While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd

A hand heaven made to succour the distress'd;

A hand that from the world's bleak promontory

Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare

There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair

Of his proud horse's mane: he was withal

A man of elegance, and stature tall:

So that the waving of his plumes would be

High as the berries of a wild ash tree,

Or as the winged cap of Mercury.

His armour was so dexterously wrought

In shape, that sure no living man had thought

It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed

It was some glorious form, some splendid weed,

In which a spirit new come from the skies

Might live, and show itself to human eyes.

'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert,

Said the good man to Calidore alert;

While the young warrior with a step of grace

Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face,

And mailed hand held out, ready to greet

The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat

Of the aspiring boy; who as he led

Those smiling ladies, often turned his head

To admire the visor arched so gracefully

Over a knightly brow; while they went by

The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were pendent,

And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;

The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted

All the green leaves that round the window clamber,

To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.

Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel,

Gladdening in the free and airy feel

Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond

Is looking round about him with a fond

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning

Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm

From lovely woman while brimful of this,

He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss,

And had such manly ardour in his eye,

That each at other look'd half staringly;

And then their features started into smiles

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came,

Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;

Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower;

Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;

Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone;

Lovely the moon in ether, all alone

Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,

As that of busy spirits when the portals

Are closing in the west; or that soft humming

We hear around when Hesperus is coming.

Sweet be their sleep.

To one who has been long in city pent,

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

When streams of light pour down the golden west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest

The silver clouds, far — far away to leave

All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve

From little cares; to find, with easy quest,

A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,

And there into delight my soul deceive.

There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier —

Till their stern forms before my mind arise

Perhaps on the wing of poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

As late I rambled in the happy fields,

What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert; — when anew

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,

A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw

Its sweets upon the summer graceful it grew

As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd

But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.

Happy is England! I could be content

To see no other verdure than its own;

To feel no other breezes than are blown

Through its tall woods with high romances blent

Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment

For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,

And half forget what world or worldling meant.

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

Enough their simple loveliness for me,

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging

Yet do I often warmly burn to see

And float with them about the summer waters.

Many the wonders I this day have seen

The sun, when first he kist away the tears

That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurel'd peers

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; —

The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, —

Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears

Must think on what will be, and what has been.

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,

Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee,

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

Full many a dreary hour have I past,

My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast

With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought

No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;

Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely

That I should never hear Apollo's song,

Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen

That the still murmur of the honey bee

Would never teach a rural song to me

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold

Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;

A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see

In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear george, and true I hold it,

That when a Poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach naught on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide,

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,

And view the glory of their festivals

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem

Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;

Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run

Like the bright spots that move about the sun;

And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar

Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,

Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;

And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows

'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,

Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,

As gracefully descending, light and thin,

Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,

When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,

And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.

Should he upon an evening ramble fare

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,

Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue

With all its diamonds trembling through and through?

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,

And staidly paces higher up, and higher,

Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight —

The revelries, and mysteries of night

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard

But richer far posterity's award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath,

While his proud eye looks through the film of death?

"What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould,

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold

With after times. — The patriot shall feel

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;

Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers

To startle princes from their easy slumbers.

The sage will mingle with each moral theme

My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem

With lofty periods when my verses fire him,

And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight

That maids will sing them on their bridal night.

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,

And form'd a snowy circle on the grass,

And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head

Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,

A bunch of violets full blown, and double,

Serenely sleep — she from a casket takes

A little book, — and then a joy awakes

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries,

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes

For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;

One that I foster'd in my youthful years

The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,

Gush ever and anon with silent creep,

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,

Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!

Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view

Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,

And warm thy sons! " Ah, my dear friend and brother,

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be

Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain

When some bright thought has darted through my brain

Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure

Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,

I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,

Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment

Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought

While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.

E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers

That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers

Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades,

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.

On one side is a field of drooping oats,

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind

The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen

Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green.

Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

I see the lark down-dropping to his nest,

And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;

For when no more he spreads his feathers free,

His breast is dancing on the restless sea.

Now I direct my eyes into the west,

Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest

Why westward turn? 'twas but to say adieu!

'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,

He slants his neck beneath the waters bright

So silently, it seems a beam of light

Come from the Galaxy anon he sports, —

With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,

Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

In striving from its crystal face to take

Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure

In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them,

Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;

For down they rush as though they would be free,

And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;

With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,

I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;

Still scooping up the water with my fingers,

In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see

Why I have never penn'd a line to thee

Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,

And little fit to please a classic ear;

Because my wine was of too poor a savour

For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour

Of sparkling Helicon — small good it were

To take him to a desert rude, and bare,

Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,

While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze

That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,

Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers

Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream

Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;

Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,

And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

And Archimago leaning o'er his book

Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,

From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;

From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania

One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks

With him who elegantly chats, and talks —

The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you stories

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city,

And tearful ladies made for love, and pity

With many else which I have never known.

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown

Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;

That you first taught me all the sweets of song

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;

What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,

And float along like birds o'er summer seas;

Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;

Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly

Up to its climax and then dying proudly?

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,

Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,

The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?

Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,

Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,

And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;

The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell

Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,

Or known your kindness, what might I have been?

What my enjoyments in my youthful years,

Bereft of all that now my life endears?

And can I e'er these benefits forget?

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?

No, doubly no; — yet should these rhymings please,

I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease

For I have long time been my fancy feeding

With hopes that you would one day think the reading

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;

Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!

Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires

In lucent Thames reflected — warm desires

And morning shadows streaking into slimness

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;

To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;

To feel the air that plays about the hills,

And sips its freshness from the little rills;

To see high, golden corn wave in the light

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,

And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,

As though she were reclining in a bed

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed —

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures

The air that floated by me seem'd to say

Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

And so I did. When many lines I'd written,

Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.

Such an attempt required an inspiration

Of peculiar sort, — a consummation; —

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been

Verses from which the soul would never wean

But many days have past since last my heart

Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;

By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;

Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd

What time you were before the music sitting,

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting;

Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes

That freshly terminate in open plains,

And revel'd in a chat that ceased not

When at night-fall among your books we got

No, nor when supper came, nor after that, —

Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand

Mid-way between our homes — your accents bland

Still sounded in my ears, when I no more

Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;

You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.

That well you know to honour — " Life's very toys

With him, " said I, " will take a pleasant charm;

It cannot be that ought will work him harm.

These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might —

Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food

Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood

Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime

And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

These will in throngs before my mind intrude

But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;

The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves —

The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound, — and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

The stars look very cold about the sky,

And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,

Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair

For I am brimfull of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found;

Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;

Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,

Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween

And let there glide by many a pearly car,

Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,

And half discovered wings, and glances keen.

The while let music wander round my ears,

And as it reaches each delicious ending,

Let me write down a line of glorious tone,

And full of many wonders of the spheres

For what a height my spirit is contending!

'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep

Like whispers of the household gods that keep

A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.

And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,

Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,

Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.

Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise

May we together pass, and calmly try

What are this world's true joys, — ere the great voice,

From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood

And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a " singleness of aim " ,

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,

Catches his freshness from archangel's wing

He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for freedom's sake

And lo! — whose stedfastness would never take

A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.

And other spirits there are standing apart

Upon the forehead of the age to come;

These, these will give the world another heart,

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings? —

Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,

In what diviner moments of the day

Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray

Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?

Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance

Of sober thought? or when starting away,

With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,

Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?

Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,

And so remain, because thou listenest

But thou to please wert nurtured so completely

That I can never tell what mood is best.

I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly

Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone

It comes upon us like the glorious pealing

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone.

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,

The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,

Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.

It tells me too, that on a happy day,

When some good spirit walks upon the earth,

Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore

Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth

To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away

To where the great God lives for evermore.

What is more gentle than a wind in summer?

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer

That stays one moment in an open flower,

And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing

In a green island, far from all men's knowing?

More healthful than the leafiness of dales?

More secret than a nest of nightingales?

More serene than Cordelia's countenance?

More full of visions than a high romance?

What, but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!

Low murmurer of tender lullabies!

Light hoverer around our happy pillows!

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!

Most happy listener! when the morning blesses

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes

That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

But what is higher beyond thought than thee?

Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?

What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

It has a glory, and nought else can share it

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

Chacing away all worldliness and folly;

Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing

That breathes about us in the vacant air;

So that we look around with prying stare,

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,

And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;

To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,

That is to crown our name when life is ended.

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,

And from the heart up-springs " rejoice! rejoice!"

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,

And die away in ardent mutterings.

No one who once the glorious sun has seen,

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

For his great Maker's presence, but must know

What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,

By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven — Should I rather kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel

A glowing splendour round about me hung,

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow

The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo

Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair

Visions of all places a bowery nook

Will be elysium — an eternal book

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;

And many a verse from so strange influence

That we must ever wonder how, and whence

It came. Also imaginings will hover

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander

In happy silence, like the clear Meander

Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,

Write on my tablets all that was permitted,

All that was for our human senses fitted.

Then the events of this wide world I'd seize

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see

Wings to find out an immortality.

Stop and consider! life is but a day;

A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way

From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep

While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;

The reading of an ever-changing tale;

The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,

Riding the springy branches of an elm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm

Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed

That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Then will I pass the countries that I see

In long perspective, and continually

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass

Of Flora, and old Pan sleep in the grass,

Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,

And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;

Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, —

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite

As hard as lips can make it till agreed,

A lovely tale of human life we'll read.

And one will teach a tame dove how it best

May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;

Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,

Will set a green robe floating round her head,

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees

Another will entice me on, and on

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;

Till in the bosom of a leafy world

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd

In the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell?

Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,

Where I may find the agonies, the strife

Of human hearts for lo! I see afar,

O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car

And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly

Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;

And now I see them on a green-hill's side

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.

The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks

To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,

Passing along before a dusky space

Made by some mighty oaks as they would chase

Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.

Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;

Some with their faces muffled to the ear

Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;

Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways

Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent

The driver of those steeds is forward bent,

And seems to listen: O that I might know

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.

The visions all are fled — the car is fled

Into the light of heaven, and in their stead

A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

My soul to nothingness but I will strive

Against all doubtings, and will keep alive

The thought of that same chariot, and the strange

Journey it went. Is there so small a range

In the present strength of manhood, that the high

Imagination cannot freely fly

As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,

Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds

Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all?

From the clear space of ether, to the small

Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning

Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,

E'en in this isle; and who could paragon

The fervid choir that lifted up a noise

Of harmony, to where it aye will poise

Its mighty self of convoluting sound,

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,

Eternally around a dizzy void?

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd

With honors; nor had any other care

Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.

Could all this be forgotten? yes, a schism

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,

Made great Apollo blush for this his land.

Men were thought wise who could not understand

His glories with a puling infant's force

They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,

And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew

Of summer nights collected still to make

The morning precious beauty was awake!

Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead

To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule

And compass vile so that ye taught a school

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,

And did not know it, — no, they went about,

Holding a poor, decrepid standard out

Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large

The name of one Boileau! o ye whose charge

It is to hover round our pleasant hills!

Whose congregated majesty so fills

My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace

Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,

So near those common folk; did not their shames

Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames

Delight you? Did ye never cluster round

Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,

And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu

To regions where no more the laurel grew?

Or did ye stay to give a welcoming

To some lone spirits who could proudly sing

Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so

But let me think away those times of woe

Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed

Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed

Fresh garlands for sweet music has been heard

In many places; — some has been upstirr'd

From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,

Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

About the earth happy are ye and glad.

These things are doubtless yet in truth we've had

Strange thunders from the potency of song;

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,

From majesty but in clear truth the themes

Are ugly clubs, the poets Polyphemes

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower

Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;

'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.

The very archings of her eye-lids charm

A thousand willing agents to obey,

And still she governs with the mildest sway

But strength alone though of the Muses born

Is like a fallen angel trees uptorn,

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

Of poesy, that it should be a friend

To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

Yet I rejoice a myrtle fairer than

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

A silent space with ever sprouting green.

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.

Then let us clear away the choaking thorns

From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown

With simple flowers let there nothing be

More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;

Nought more ungentle than the placid look

Of one who leans upon a closed book;

Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes

Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!

As she was wont, th' imagination

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,

And they shall be accounted poet kings

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.

O may these joys be ripe before I die.

Will not some say that I presumptuously

Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace

'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be

In the very fane, the light of Poesy

If I do fall, at least I will be laid

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;

And there shall be a kind memorial graven.

But off despondence! miserable bane!

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain

A noble end, are thirsty every hour.

What though I am not wealthy in the dower

Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow

Of man though no great minist'ring reason sorts

Out the dark mysteries of human souls

To clear conceiving yet there ever rolls

A vast idea before me, and I glean

Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen

The end and aim of poesy. 'Tis clear

As any thing most true; as that the year

Is made of the four seasons — manifest

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I

Be but the essence of deformity,

A coward, did my very eye-lids wink

At speaking out what I have dared to think.

Ah! rather let me like a madman run

Over some precipice; let the hot sun

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down

Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

How many days! what desperate turmoil!

Ere I can have explored its widenesses.

Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,

I could unsay those — no, impossible!

Impossible! for sweet relief I'll dwell

On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

Begun in gentleness die so away.

E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades

I turn full hearted to the friendly aids

That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.

The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet

Into the brain ere one can think upon it;

The silence when some rhymes are coming out;

And when they're come, the very pleasant rout

The message certain to be done to-morrow —

'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow

Some precious book from out its snug retreat,

To cluster round it when we next shall meet.

Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs

Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;

Many delights of that glad day recalling,

And with these airs come forms of elegance

Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,

Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round

Parting luxuriant curls; — and the swift bound

Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye

Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.

Thus I remember all the pleasant flow

Of words at opening a portfolio.

Things such as these are ever harbingers

To trains of peaceful images the stirs

Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes

A linnet starting all about the bushes

A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,

Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted

With over pleasure — many, many more,

Might I indulge at large in all my store

Of luxuries yet I must not forget

Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet

For what there may be worthy in these rhymes

I partly owe to him — and thus the chimes

Of friendly voices had just given place

To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace

The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.

It was a poet's house who keeps the keys

Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung

The glorious features of the bards who sung

In other ages — cold and sacred busts

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts

To clear futurity his darling fame!

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim

At swelling apples with a frisky leap

And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward

The dazzling sun-rise two sisters sweet

Bending their graceful figures till they meet

Over the trippings of a little child

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs; —

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion

With the subsiding crystal as when ocean

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er

Its rocky marge, and balances once more

The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam

Feel all about their undulating home.

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown

Of over thinking had that moment gone

From off her brow, and left her all alone.

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,

As if he always listened to the sighs

Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn

By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn.

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,

Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!

For over them was seen a free display

Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone

The face of Poesy from off her throne

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.

The very sense of where I was might well

Keep Sleep aloof but more than that there came

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame

Within my breast; so that the morning light

Surprised me even from a sleepless night;

And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,

Resolving to begin that very day

These lines; and howsoever they be done,

I leave them as a father does his son.

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still,

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

Had not yet lost those starry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves

For not the faintest motion could be seen

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,

To peer about upon variety;

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

To picture out the quaint, and curious bending

Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

I gazed awile, and felt as light, and free

As though the fanning wings of Mercury

Had played upon my heels I was light-hearted,

And many pleasures to my vision started;

So I straightway began to pluck a posey

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;

Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,

That with a score of light green brethren shoots

From the quaint mossiness of aged roots

Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters

Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters

The spreading blue bells it may haply mourn

That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Ye ardent marigolds!

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung;

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses

So haply when I rove in some far vale,

His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight

With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,

And taper fingers catching at all things,

To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awile upon some bending planks

That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,

And watch intently Nature's gentle doings

They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.

How silent comes the water round that bend;

Not the minutest whisper does it send

To the o'erhanging sallows blades of grass

Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,

To taste the luxury of sunny beams

Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle

With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

If you but scantily hold out the hand,

That very instant not one will remain;

But turn your eye, and they are there again.

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

And moisture, that the bowery green may live

So keeping up an interchange of favours,

Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

From low hung branches; little space they stop;

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;

Then off at once, as in a wanton freak

Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away,

Fanning away the dandelion's down;

Than the light music of her nimble toes

Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

Playing in all her innocence of thought.

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,

Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;

O let me for one moment touch her wrist;

Let me one moment to her breathing list;

And as she leaves me may she often turn

Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.

What next? A tuft of evening primroses,

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim

Coming into the blue with all her light.

O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight

Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,

Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!

Thee must I praise above all other glories

That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

For what has made the sage or poet write

But the fair paradise of Nature's light?

In the calm grandeur of a sober line,

We see the waving of the mountain pine;

And when a tale is beautifully staid,

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade

When it is moving on luxurious wings,

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;

O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles

So that we feel uplifted from the world,

Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd.

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips

First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips

They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs,

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes

The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder —

The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder;

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,

To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,

That we might look into a forest wide,

To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades

Coming with softest rustle through the trees;

And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet

Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.

Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find,

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind

Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,

Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing

Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?

In some delicious ramble, he had found

A little space, with boughs all woven round;

And in the midst of all, a clearer pool

Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool

The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping

Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,

A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,

Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,

To woo its own sad image into nearness

Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love

So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,

Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;

Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

Coming ever to bless

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

Full in the speculation of the stars.

Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

Into some wond'rous region he had gone,

To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;

And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow

A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,

The incense went to her own starry dwelling.

But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,

Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,

The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,

Wept that such beauty should be desolate

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen

Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!

As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.

O for three words of honey, that I might

Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,

Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,

And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,

Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

The evening weather was so bright, and clear,

That men of health were of unusual cheer;

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,

Or young Apollo on the pedestal

And lovely women were as fair and warm,

As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.

Soon they awoke clear eyed nor burnt with thirsting,

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting

And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,

And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd

With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd

To see the brightness in each other's eyes;

And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,

Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.

Therefore no lover did of anguish die

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,

Made silken ties, that never may be broken.

Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,

That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses

Was there a Poet born? — but now no more,

The church bells toll a melancholy round,

Calling the people to some other prayers,

Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,

More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.

Surely the mind of man is closely bound

In some black spell; seeing that each one tears

Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,

And converse high of those with glory crown'd.

Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp —

A chill as from a tomb, did I not know

That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;

That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go

Into oblivion; — that fresh flowers will grow,

And many glories of immortal stamp.

The poetry of earth is never dead

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead

In summer luxury, — he has never done

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains

For a long dreary season, comes a day

Born of the gentle south, and clears away

From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.

The anxious month, relieving from its pains,

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,

The eyelids with the passing coolness play,

Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.

The calmest thoughts come round us — as of leaves

Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — autumn suns

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, —

Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's breath, —

The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs, —

A woodland rivulet, — a poet's death.

From my glad bosom, — now from gloominess

I mount for ever — not an atom less

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.

No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press

Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, " Do this " ? Who dares call down

My will from its high purpose? who say, " Stand,"

Or " Go " ? This mighty moment I would frown

On abject Caesars — not the stoutest band

Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

Minutes are flying swiftly, and as yet

Nothing unearthly has enticed my brain

Into a delphic labyrinth — I would fain

Catch an unmortal thought to pay the debt

I owe to the kind poet who has set

Upon my ambitious head a glorious gain.

Two bending laurel sprigs — 'tis nearly pain

To be conscious of such a coronet.

Gorgeous as I would have it — only I see

A trampling down of what the world most prizes,

Turbans and crowns, and blank regality;

And then I run into most wild surmises

Of all the many glories that may be.

What is there in the universal earth

More lovely than a wreath from the bay tree?

Haply a halo round the moon — a glee

Circling from three sweet pair of lips in mirth;

And haply you will say the dewy birth

Of morning roses — riplings tenderly

Spread by the halcyon's breast upon the sea —

But these comparisons are nothing worth —

Then is there nothing in the world so fair?

The silvery tears of April? — Youth of May?

Or June that breaths out life for butterflies?

No — none of these can from my favourite bear

Away the palm — yet shall it ever pay

Due reverence to your most sovereign eyes.

God of the golden bow,

And of the golden hair,

And of the golden fire,

Charioteer

Of the patient year,

Where — where slept thine ire,

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story,

Or was I a worm — too low crawling for death?

O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;

The eagle's feathery mane

For wrath became stiffen'd — the sound

Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,

Muttering to be unbound.

O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

Why was I not crush'd — such a pitiful germ?

O Delphic Apollo!

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in earth

Were swelling for summer fare;

The ocean, its neighbour,

Was at his old labour,

When, who — who did dare

To tie for a moment thy plant round his brow,

And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly,

And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?

O Delphic Apollo!

Glory and loveliness have passed away;

For if we wander out in early morn,

No wreathed incense do we see upborne

Into the east, to meet the smiling day

No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn

The shrine of Flora in her early May .

But there are left delights as high as these,

And I shall ever bless my destiny,

That in a time, when under pleasant trees

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free

A leafy luxury, seeing I could please

With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

My spirit is too weak — mortality

Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,

And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep

Of godlike hardship tells me I must die

Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep

That I have not the cloudy winds to keep

Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.

Such dim-conceived glories of the brain

Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;

So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,

That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude

Wasting of old time — with a billowy main —

A sun — a shadow of a magnitude.

Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak

Definitively on these mighty things;

Forgive me that I have not eagle's wings —

That what I want I know not where to seek

And think that I would not be over-meek

In rolling out upfollow'd thunderings,

Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,

Were I of ample strength for such a freak —

Think too, that all those numbers should be thine;

Whose else? in this who touch thy vesture's hem?

For when men star'd at what was most divine

Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine

Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them.

Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,

Down-looking — ay, and with a chastened light,

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,

And meekly let your fair hands joined be,

As if so gentle that ye could not see,

Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright —

Sinking away to his young spirit's night,

Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea

'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips

For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.

O horrid dream! see how his body dips

Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile

He's gone up bubbles all his amorous breath!

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,

With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,

Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek

For meadows where the little rivers run;

Of heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly speak

These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,

Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.

He who knows these delights, and too is prone

To moralise upon a smile or tear,

Will find at once a region of his own,

A bower for his spirit, and will steer

To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone,

Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.

It keeps eternal whisperings around

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell

Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,

When last the winds of heaven were unbound.

Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,

Feast them upon the wideness of the sea;

Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody, —

Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood

Unfelt, unheard, unseen,

I've left my little queen,

Her languid arms in silver slumber lying

Ah! through their nestling touch,

Who — who could tell how much

There is for madness — cruel, or complying?

Those faery lids how sleek!

Those lips how moist! — they speak,

In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds

Into my fancy's ear

Melting a burden dear,

How " love doth know no fullness nor no bounds."

True! — tender monitors!

I bend unto your laws

This sweetest day for dalliance was born!

So, without more ado,

I'll feel my heaven anew,

For all the blushing of the hasty morn.

Hither, hither, love —

'Tis a shady mead —

Hither, hither, love,

Hither, hither, sweet —

'Tis a cowslip bed —

Hither, hither, sweet!

'Tis with dew bespread!

Hither, hither, dear,

By the breath of life,

Hither, hither, dear!

Be the summer's wife!

Though one moment's pleasure

In one moment flies,

Though the passion's treasure

In one moment dies;

Yet it has not passed —

Think how near, how near! —

And while it doth last,

Think how dear, how dear!

Hither, hither, hither

Love this boon hath sent —

If I die and wither

I shall die content.

You say you love; but with a voice

Chaster than a nun's, who singeth

While the chime-bell ringeth —

O love me truly!

You say you love; but with a smile

Cold as sunrise in September,

As you were Saint Cupid's nun,

And kept his weeks of Ember.

O love me truly!

You say you love — but then your lips

Coral tinted teach no blisses,

More than coral in the sea —

They never pout for kisses —

O love me truly!

You say you love; but then your hand

No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth,

It is like a statue's, dead, —

While mine to passion burneth —

O love me truly!

O breathe a word or two of fire!

Smile, as if those words should burn me,

Squeeze as lovers should — O kiss

And in thy heart inurn me!

O love me truly!

Before he went to feed with owls and bats

Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream,

Worse than an hus'if's when she thinks her cream

Made a naumachia for mice and rats.

So scared, he sent for that " good king of cats"

Young Daniel, who soon did pluck the beam

From out his eye, and said " I do not deem

Your sceptre worth a straw — your cushions old door-mats"

A horrid nightmare similar somewhat

Of late has haunted a most valiant crew

Of loggerheads and chapmen — we are told

That any Daniel though he be a sot

Can make their lying lips turn pale of hue

By drawling out " Ye are that head of gold."

The Gothic looks solemn,

The plain Doric column

Supports an old bishop and crosier;

The mouldering arch,

Shaded o'er by a larch

Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.

Vice — that is, by turns, —

The black tassell trencher or common hat;

The Chantry boy sings,

The steeple-bell rings,

And as for the chancellor — dominat).

There are plenty of trees,

And plenty of ease,

And plenty of fat deer for parsons;

And when it is venison,

Short is the benison, —

Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.

O grant that like to Peter I

May like to Peter B,

And tell me, lovely Jesus, Y

Old Jonah went to C.

Think not of it, sweet one, so; —

Give it not a tear;

Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go

Any — any where.

Do not look so sad, sweet one, —

Sad and fadingly;

Shed one drop, then it is gone,

Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;

Weep, I'll count the tears,

And each one shall be a bliss

For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes

Than a sunny rill;

And thy whispering melodies

Are tenderer still.

Yet — as all things mourn awhile

At fleeting blisses,

E'en let us too! but be our dirge

A dirge of kisses.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That 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 dooms

We 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 essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

They alway must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I

Will trace the story of Endymion.

The very music of the name has gone

Into my being, and each pleasant scene

Is growing fresh before me as the green

Of our own vallies so I will begin

Now while I cannot hear the city's din;

Now while the early budders are just new,

And run in mazes of the youngest hue

About old forests; while the willow trails

Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer

My 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,

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

Hum 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,

Be all about me when I make an end.

And now at once, adventuresome, I send

My herald thought into a wilderness

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread

A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed

So plenteously all weed-hidden roots

Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.

And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,

Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep

A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,

Never again saw he the happy pens

Whither 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 sever

From the white flock, but pass'd unworried

By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,

Until it came to some unfooted plains

Where fed the herds of Pan ay great his gains

Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,

And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly

To a wide lawn, whence one could only see

Stems thronging all around between the swell

Of turf and slanting branches who could tell

The freshness of the space of heaven above,

Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove

Would often beat its wings, and often too

A little cloud would move across the blue.

Full in the middle of this pleasantness

There stood a marble altar, with a tress

Of flowers budded newly; and the dew

Had taken fairy phantasies to strew

Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,

And so the dawned light in pomp receive.

For 'twas the morn Apollo's upward fire

Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre

Of brightness so unsullied, that therein

A melancholy spirit well might win

Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine

Into the winds rain-scented eglantine

Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;

To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;

Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass

Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,

To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

Now while the silent workings of the dawn

Were busiest, into that self-same lawn

All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped

A troop of little children garlanded;

Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry

Earnestly round as wishing to espy

Some folk of holiday nor had they waited

For many moments, ere their ears were sated

With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then

Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.

Within a little space again it gave

Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,

To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking

Through copse-clad vallies, — ere their death, o'ertaking

The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

And now, as deep into the wood as we

Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light

Fair faces and a rush of garments white,

Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last

Making directly for the woodland altar.

O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter

In telling of this goodly company,

Of their old piety, and of their glee

But let a portion of ethereal dew

Fall on my head, and presently unmew

My 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'd

With April's tender younglings next, well trimm'd,

A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks

As may be read of in Arcadian books;

Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,

When the great deity, for earth too ripe,

Let his divinity o'er-flowing die

In music, through the vales of Thessaly

Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,

And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound

With ebon-tipped flutes close after these,

Now coming from beneath the forest trees,

Begirt with ministring looks alway his eye

Stedfast 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 full

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull

Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still

Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.

His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,

Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud

Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,

Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd

Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown

Who stood therein did seem of great renown

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown,

Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;

And, for those simple times, his garments were

Was hung a silver bugle, and between

His 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'd

Of idleness in groves Elysian

But there were some who feelingly could scan

A lurking trouble in his nether lip,

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip

Through his forgotten hands then would they sigh,

And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's 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'd

To sudden veneration women meek

Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek

Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.

Endymion too, without a forest peer,

Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,

Among his brothers of the mountain chase.

In midst of all, the venerable priest

Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,

And, after lifting up his aged hands,

Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks

Whether descended from beneath the rocks

That overtop your mountains; whether come

From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;

Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs

Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze

Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge

Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,

Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn

By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn

Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare

The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;

And all ye gentle girls who foster up

Udderless lambs, and in a little cup

Will put choice honey for a favoured youth

Yea, every one attend! for in good truth

Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.

Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than

Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains

Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains

Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad

Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had

The earth is glad the merry lark has pour'd

His early song against yon breezy sky,

That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire

Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;

Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod

With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.

Now while the earth was drinking it, and while

Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,

And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright

'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light

Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang

"O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang

From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth

Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death

Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;

Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress

Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;

And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken

The dreary melody of bedded reeds —

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;

Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth

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, turtles

Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,

What time thou wanderest at eventide

Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side

Of thine enmossed realms o thou, to whom

Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom

Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees

Their golden honeycombs; our village leas

Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn;

The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,

To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries

Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies

Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year

All its completions — be quickly near,

By every wind that nods the mountain pine,

O forester divine!

"Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies

For willing service; whether to surprise

The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;

To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;

Or by mysterious enticement draw

Bewildered shepherds to their path again;

Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,

And gather up all fancifullest shells

For 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 crown

With 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 peers

A ram goes bleating Winder of the horn,

When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn

Anger our huntsmen 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 doors

Great son of Dryope,

The many that are come to pay their vows

With leaves about their brows!

"Be still the unimaginable lodge

For solitary thinkings; such as dodge

Conception to the very bourne of heaven,

Then leave the naked brain be still the leaven,

That spreading in this dull and clodded earth

Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth

Be still a symbol of immensity;

A firmament reflected in a sea;

An element filling the space between;

An unknown — but no more we humbly screen

With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,

And giving out a shout most heaven rending,

Conjure thee to receive our humble paean,

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 rolls

Of abrupt thunder, when ionian shoals

Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.

Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,

To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.

Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly

To tunes forgotten — out of memory

Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bred

Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead,

But in old marbles ever beautiful.

High genitors, unconscious did they cull

Time's sweet first-fruits — they danc'd to weariness,

And then in quiet circles did they press

The hillock turf, and caught the latter end

Of some strange history, potent to send

A young mind from its bodily tenement.

Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent

On either side; pitying the sad death

Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath

Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent,

Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firament,

Fondles 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 raft

Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,

Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee

And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,

Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young

Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue

Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,

And very, very deadliness did nip

Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood

By 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 amaze

Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,

Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,

There shot a golden splendour far and wide,

Spangling those million poutings of the brine

With quivering ore 'twas even an awful shine

From 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 ring

Where sat Endymion and the aged priest

'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd

The silvery setting of their mortal star.

That keeps us from our homes ethereal;

And what our duties there to nightly call

Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;

To summon all the downiest clouds together

For the sun's purple couch; to emulate

In ministring the potent rule of fate

With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;

To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons

Sweet poesy by moonlight besides these,

A world of other unguess'd offices.

Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,

Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse

Each one his own anticipated bliss.

One felt heart-certain that he could not miss

His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,

Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows

Her 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

Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,

And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;

His messenger, his little Mercury.

Some were athirst in soul to see again

Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign

In times long past; to sit with them, and talk

Of all the chances in their earthly walk;

Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores

Of happiness, to when upon the moors,

Benighted, close they huddled from the cold,

And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told

Their fond imaginations, — saving him

Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim,

Endymion yet hourly had he striven

To hide the cankering venom, that had riven

His fainting recollections. Now indeed

His senses had swoon'd off he did not heed

The sudden silence, or the whispers low,

Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,

Or 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 stept.

Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man,

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 persuade

A yielding up, a cradling on her care.

Her eloquence did breathe away the curse

She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse

Of 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 slow

From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small;

Until they came to where these streamlets fall,

With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush,

Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush

With 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 light

Where nested was an arbour, overwove

By many a summer's silent fingering;

To whose cool bosom she was used to bring

Her playmates, with their needle broidery,

And minstrel memories of times gone by.

So she was gently glad to see him laid

Under her favourite bower's quiet shade,

On her own couch, new made of flower leaves,

Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves

When last the sun his autumn tresses shook,

And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took.

Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest

But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest

Peona's busy hand against his lips,

And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips

In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps

A patient watch over the stream that creeps

Windingly by it, so the quiet maid

Held her in peace so that a whispering blade

Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling

Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling

Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.

That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind

Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd

Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key

To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,

Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,

Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves

And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world

Of silvery enchantment! — who, upfurl'd

Beneath 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 love

All through my bosom thou art as a dove

Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings

About me; and the pearliest dew not brings

Such morning incense from the fields of May,

As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray

From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt

Of sisterly affection. Can I want

Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?

Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears

Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise

My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more

Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar

Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll

Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll

The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow

And, when the pleasant sun is getting low,

Again I'll linger in a sloping mead

To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed

Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet,

And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat

My soul to keep in its resolved course."

Hereat Peona, in their silver source,

Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim,

And took a lute, from which there pulsing came

A lively prelude, fashioning the way

In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay

More subtle cadenced, more forest wild

Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;

And nothing since has floated in the air

So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare

Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand;

The quick invisible strings, even though she saw

Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw

Before the deep intoxication.

But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon

Her self-possession — swung the lute aside,

And earnestly said " Brother, 'tis vain to hide

That thou dost know of things mysterious,

Immortal, starry; such alone could thus

Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught

Offensive to the heavenly powers? caught

A Paphian dove upon a message sent?

Thy deathful bow against some dear-head bent,

Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen

Her naked limbs among the alders green;

And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace

Something 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 bland

And merry in our meadows? How is this?

Tell me thine ailment tell me all amiss! —

Ah! thou has been unhappy at the change

Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange?

Ambition is no sluggard 'tis no prize,

That toiling years would put within my grasp,

That I have sigh'd for with so deadly gasp

No man e'er panted for a mortal love.

So all have set my heavier grief above

These things which happen. Rightly have they done

I, who still saw the horizontal sun

Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world,

Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd

My spear aloft, as signal for the chace —

I, who, for very sport of heart, would race

With my own steed from Araby; pluck down

A vulture from his towery perching; frown

A lion into growling, loth retire —

To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire,

And sink thus low! but I will ease my breast

Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest.

"This river does not see the naked sky,

Till it begins to progress silverly

Around the western border of the wood,

Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood

Seems at the distance like a crescent moon

Had I been used to pass my weary eves;

The rather for the sun unwilling leaves

So dear a picture of his sovereign power,

And I could witness his most kingly hour,

When he doth tighten up the golden reins,

And paces leisurely down amber plains

His snorting four. Now when his chariot last

Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast,

There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed

Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red

At which I wondered greatly, knowing well

That but one night had wrought this flowery spell;

And, sitting down close by, began to muse

What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus,

In passing here, his owlet pinions shook;

Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook

Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth,

Had dipt his rod in it such garland wealth

Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought,

Until my head was dizzy and distraught.

Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole

A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul;

And shaping visions all about my sight

The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,

And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim

And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell

The enchantment that afterwards befel?

Yet it was but a dream yet such a dream

That never tongue, although it overteem

With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring,

Could figure out and to conception bring

All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay

Watching the zenith, where the milky way

Among the stars in virgin splendour pours;

And travelling my eye, until the doors

Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight,

I became loth and fearful to alight

From 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;

And lo! from the opening clouds, I saw emerge

A shell for Neptune's goblet she did soar

So passionately bright, my dazzled soul

Commingling with her argent spheres did roll

Through clear and cloudy, even when she went

At last into a dark and vapoury tent —

Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train

Of planets all were in the blue again.

To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd

My sight right upward but it was quite dazed

By 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 where

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair?

Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun

Such follying before thee — yet she had,

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;

And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,

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 clings

And plays about its fancy, till the stings

Of 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 sweet

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose

From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows

Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion;

'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,

Over 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 one

Gurgling in beds of coral for anon,

I felt upmounted in that region

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth,

And eagles struggle with the buffeting north

That 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 aye muster where grey time has scoop'd

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side

There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd

To faint once more by looking on my bliss —

I was distracted; madly did I kiss

The wooing arms which held me, and did give

My eyes at once to death but 'twas to live,

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount

Of kind and passionate looks; to count, and count

The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd

A second self, that each might be redeem'd

And plunder'd of its load of blessedness.

Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to press

And, at that moment, felt my body dip

Into a warmer air a moment more

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store

Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes

A 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,

An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd.

"Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd me

In 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 spark

That needs must die, although its little beam

Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream

Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep.

And so it was, until a gentle creep,

A careful moving caught my waking ears,

And up I started Ah! my sighs, my tears,

My clenched hands; — for lo! the poppies hung

Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung

A heavy ditty, and the sullen day

With leaden looks the solitary breeze

Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teaze

With wayward melancholy; and I thought,

Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought

Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus! —

Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues

Of heaven and earth had faded deepest shades

Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny glades

Were full of pestilent light; our taintless rills

Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills

Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown

In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown

Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird

Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd

In little journeys, I beheld in it

A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit

My soul with under darkness; to entice

My stumblings down some monstrous precipice

Therefore I eager followed, and did curse

The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse,

Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven!

These things, with all their comfortings, are given

To my down-sunken hours, and with thee,

Of weary life. " Thus ended he, and both

Sat silent for the maid was very loth

To answer; feeling well that breathed words

Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords

Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps

Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps,

And wonders; struggles to devise some blame;

To put on such a look as would say, Shame)

On) this) poor) weakness)! but, for all her strife,

She could as soon have crush'd away the life

From 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 pass

Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave

His name upon the harp-string, should achieve

No higher bard than simple maidenhood,

Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood

Left his young cheek; and how he used to stray

He knew not where; and how he would say, nay),

If any said 'twas love and yet 'twas love;

What could it be but love? How a ring-dove

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 closes

With sighs, and an alas! — Endymion!

Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon

Among the winds at large — that all may hearken!

Although, before the crystal heavens darken,

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes

Pictur'd in western cloudiness, that takes

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands,

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands

With horses prancing o'er them, palaces

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease

My pleasant days, because I could not mount

Into those regions? The Morphean fount

Of that fine element that visions, dreams,

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams

Into its airy channels with so subtle,

So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle,

Circled a million times within the space

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace,

A tinting of its quality how light

Than the mere nothing that engenders them!

Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem

Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick?

Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick

For nothing but a dream? " Hereat the youth

Look'd up a conflicting of shame and ruth

Was in his plaited brow yet, his eyelids

Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids

A little breeze to creep between the fans

Of careless butterflies amid his pains

He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew,

Full palatable; and a colour grew

Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake.

"Peona! ever have I long'd to slake

My thirst for the world's praises nothing base,

No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace

The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd —

Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'd

And sullenly drifting yet my higher hope

Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope,

To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks

Our ready minds to fellowship divine,

Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold

The clear religion of heaven! Fold

A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,

And soothe thy lips hist, when the airy stress

Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds,

And with a sympathetic touch unbinds

Eolian magic from their lucid wombs

Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;

Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;

Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave

Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot;

Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,

Where long ago a giant battle was;

And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass

In every place where infant Orpheus slept.

Feel we these things? — that moment have we stept

Into a sort of oneness, and our state

Is like a floating spirit's. But there are

Richer entanglements, enthralments far

More self-destroying, leading, by degrees,

To the chief intensity the crown of these

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high

All its more ponderous and bulky worth

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth

A steady splendour; but at the tip-top,

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop

Of 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,

Melting into its radiance, we blend,

Mingle, and so become a part of it, —

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit

So 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 van

Of all the congregated world, to fan

And winnow from the coming step of time

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime

Left 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,

For I have ever thought that it might bless

The world with benefits unknowingly;

As does the nightingale, upperched high,

And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves —

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.

Just so may love, although 'tis understood

The mere commingling of passionate breath,

Produce more than our searching witnesseth

What I know not but who, of men, can tell

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell

To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,

The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,

The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,

The 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 make

Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake

Ambition from their memories, and brim

Their measure of content; what merest whim,

Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,

To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim

Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true,

And never can be born of atomies

That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,

Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure,

My restless spirit never could endure

To brood so long upon one luxury,

Unless it did, though fearfully, espy

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

My sayings will the less obscured seem,

When I have told thee how my waking sight

Has made me scruple whether that same night

Was 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 brows

Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart,

And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,

And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide

Past them, but he must brush on every side.

Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell,

Far as the slabbed margin of a well,

Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set

Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet

Edges them round, and they have golden pits

'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits

In 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,

I'd bubble up the water through a reed;

So reaching back to boy-hood make me ships

Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,

With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be

Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,

When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,

I sat contemplating the figures wild

Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through

Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;

So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver

The happy chance so happy, I was fain

To 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 leap

Through the cool depth. — It moved as if to flee —

I started up, when lo! refreshfully,

There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,

Dew-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 bliss

Alone preserved me from the drear abyss

Of death, for the fair form had gone again.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth

On the deer's tender haunches late, and loth,

'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure

Of 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 crept

Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept

Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.

Once more been tortured with renewed life.

When last the wintry gusts gave over strife

With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies

Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes

In 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'd

All torment from my breast; — 'twas even then,

Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den

Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance

From place to place, and following at chance,

At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,

And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck

In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble

Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,

Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,

Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave

The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, —

'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock

Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,

Hung a lush screne of drooping weeds, and spread

Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home.

Said I, low voic'd " ah, whither! 'tis the grot

Of Proserpine, wHen hell, obscure and hot,

Doth her resign; and where her tender hands

She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands

Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,

And babbles thorough silence, till her wits

Are gone in tender madness, and anon,

Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone

Of 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-whispers

Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers

May sigh my love unto her pitying!

O charitable Echo! hear, and sing

This ditty to her! — tell her " — so I stay'd

My 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 name

Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir

No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise

Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys

And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.

At that oppress'd I hurried in. — Ah! where

Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled?

I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed

Sorrow the way to death; but patiently

Bear up against it so farewel, sad sigh;

And come instead demurest meditation,

To occupy me wholly, and to fashion

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.

No more will I count over, link by link,

My chain of grief no longer strive to find

A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind

Blustering 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 plays

Where'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?

Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car."

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star

Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand

They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.

O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,

And shadowy, through the mist of passed years

For others, good or bad, hatred and tears

Have become indolent; but touching thine,

One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,

One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,

Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,

Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all dimly fades

Into some backward corner of the brain;

Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain

The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.

Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!

Swart planet in the universe of deeds!

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds

Along the pebbled shore of memory!

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified

To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,

And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.

But wherefore this? what care, though owl did fly

About the great Athenian admiral's mast?

What care, though striding Alexander past

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers?

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers

The glutted Cyclops, what care? — Juliet leaning

Amid her window-flowers, — signing, — weaning

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,

Doth more avail than these the silver flow

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,

Are things to brood on with more ardency

Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully

Must such conviction come upon his head,

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 chafing restlessness, is yet more drear

Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear

So once more days and nights aid me along,

Like legion'd soldiers. Brain-sick shepherd-prince,

What promise hast thou faithful guarded since

The day of sacrifice? or, have new sorrows

Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?

Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days,

Has he been wandering in uncertain ways

Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;

Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes

Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,

Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill.

Now he is sitting by a shady spring,

And elbow-deep with feverous fingering

Stems the upbursting cold a wild rose tree

Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see

A bud which snares his fancy lo! but now

He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water how!

It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;

And, in the middle, there is softly pight

A golden butterfly; upon whose wings

There must be surely character'd strange things,

For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands

Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands

His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies

Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.

It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;

And like a new-born spirit did he pass

Through the green evening quiet in the sun,

O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,

Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams

The summer time away. One track unseams

A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue

Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew,

He sinks adown a solitary glen,

Where there was never sound of mortal men,

Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences

Melting to silence, when upon the breeze

Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,

To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet

Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide,

Until it reached a splashing fountain's side

That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd

Unto the temperate air then high it soar'd,

As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip

The crystal spout-head so it did, with touch

Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch

Even with mealy gold the waters clear.

But, at that very touch, to disappear

So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,

Endymion sought around, and shook each bed

Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung

Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue,

What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?

It was a nymph uprisen to the breast

In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood

'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.

To him her dripping hand she softly kist,

And anxiously began to plait and twist

Her ringlets round her fingers, saying " Youth!

Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,

The bitterness of love too long indeed,

Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed

Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer

All the bright riches of my crystal coffer

To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,

Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,

Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws

A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands

Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands

By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,

My charming rod, my potent river spells;

Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup

Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up

To fainting creatures in a desert wild.

But woe is me, I am but as a child

To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,

Is, that I pity thee; that on this day

I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far

In other regions, past the scanty bar

To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en

From every wasting sigh, from every pain,

Into the gentle bosom of thy love.

Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above

But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel!

I have a ditty for my hollow cell."

Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze,

Who brooded o'er the water in amaze

The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool

Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,

And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill

Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer,

Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr

Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;

And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown

Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,

Thus breath'd he to himself " Whoso encamps

To take a fancied city of delight,

O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his,

After long toil and travelling, to miss

The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile

Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil;

Another city doth he set about,

Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt

That he will seize on trickling honey-combs

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,

To make us feel existence, and to show

How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,

Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,

There is no depth to strike in I can see

Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand

Upon a misty, jutting head of land —

Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,

When mad Eurydice is listening to 't;

I'd rather stand upon this misty peak,

With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,

But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love,

Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove

Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,

Glance but one little beam of temper'd light

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might

And tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd!

Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd,

Would give a pang to jealous misery,

Worse than the torment's self but rather tie

Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out

My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,

Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.

O be propitious, nor severely deem

My madness impious; for, by all the stars

That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars

That kept my spirit in are burst — that I

Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!

How beautiful thou art! the world how deep!

How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep

Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,

How lithe! When this thy chariot attains

Its airy goal, haply some bower veils

Those twilight eyes? Those eyes! — my spirit fails —

Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air

Will gulph me — help! " — At this with madden'd stare,

And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood;

Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood,

Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.

And, but from the deep cavern there was borne

A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;

Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan

Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth " Descend,

Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend

Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd

As from thy threshold; day by day hast been

A little lower than the chilly sheen

Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms

Into the deadening ether that still charms

Their marble being now, as deep profound

As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd

With immortality, who fears to follow

Where airy voices lead so through the hollow,

The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"

He heard but the last words, nor could contend

One moment in reflection for he fled

Into the fearful deep, to hide his head

From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;

Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite

To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,

The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,

But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;

A dusky empire and its diadems;

One faint eternal eventide of gems.

Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,

With all its lines abrupt and angular

Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,

Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,

Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof

Curves hugely now, far in the deep abyss,

It seems an angry lighting, and doth hiss

Fancy into belief anon it leads

Through winding passages, where sameness breeds

Vexing conceptions of some sudden change;

Whether to silver grots, or giant range

Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge

Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge

Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath

Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth

A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come

But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb

His bosom grew, when first he, far away,

Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray

Old darkness from his throne 'twas like the sun

Uprisen o'er chaos and with such a stun

Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,

He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit

Of any spirit to tell, but one of those

Will be its high remembrancers who they?

The mighty ones who have made eternal day

For Greece and England. While astonishment

With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went

Into a marble gallery, passing through

A mimic temple, so complete and true

In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd

To search it inwards; whence far off appear'd,

Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,

And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,

A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,

The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eye

Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old.

And when, more near against the marble cold

He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread

All courts and passages, where silence dead

Rous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint

And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint

Himself with every mystery, and awe;

Till, weary, he sat down before the maw

Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim,

To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.

And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore

The journey homeward to habitual self!

A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,

Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar,

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,

Into the bosom of a hated thing.

What misery most drowningly doth sing

In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught

The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,

The deadly feel of solitude for lo!

He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow

Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild

In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,

The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,

Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest

Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;

But far from such companionship to wear

An unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away,

Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,

Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?

"No! " exclaimed he, " why should I tarry here?"

No! loudly echoed times innumerable.

His paces back into the temple's chief;

Warming and glowing strong in the belief

Of help from Dian so that when again

He caught her airy form, thus did he plain,

Moving more near the while. " O Haunter chaste

Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,

Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen

Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen,

What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?

Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos

Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree

Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be,

'Tis in the breath of heaven thou dost taste

Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste

Thy loveliness in dismal elements;

But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,

There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee

It feels Elysian, how rich to me,

An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name!

Within my breast there lives a choking flame —

O let me cool it the zephyr-boughs among!

A homeward fever parches up my tongue —

Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings —

O let me once more hear the linnet's note!

Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float —

O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light!

Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?

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,

O 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'erleap

His destiny, alert he stood but when

Obstinate silence came heavily again,

Feeling about for its old couch of space

And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face

Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.

But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill

To its cold channel, or a swollen tide

To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,

And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns

Up heaping through the slab refreshment drowns

Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride

In a long whispering birth enchanted grew

Before his footsteps; as when heav'd anew

Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,

Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all hoar,

Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,

Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;

So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes

One moment with his hand among the sweets

Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats

As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm

Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm,

This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe

For it came more softly than the east could blow

Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;

Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles

Of thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyre

To seas Ionian and Tyrian.

O did he ever live, that lonely man,

Who lov'd — and music slew not? 'Tis the pest

Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest

Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth,

By one consuming flame it doth immerse

And suffocate true blessings in a curse.

Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,

Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this

Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear;

First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,

Vanish'd in elemental passion.

And down some swart abysm he had gone

Had not a heavenly guide benignant led

To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head

Brushing, awakened then the sounds again

Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain

Over a bower, where little space he stood;

For as the sunset peeps into a wood

So saw he panting light, and towards it went

Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!

Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,

Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.

After a thousand mazes overgone,

At last, with sudden step, he came upon

A chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high,

And more of beautiful and strange beside

For on a silken couch of rosy pride,

In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth

Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,

Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach

And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach,

Or ripe October's faded marigolds,

Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds —

Not hiding up an Apollonian curve

Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve

Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;

But rather, giving them to the filled sight

Officiously. Sideway his face repos'd

On one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd,

By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth

To slumbery pout; just as the morning south

Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,

Four lily stalks did their white honours wed

To make a coronal; and round him grew

All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,

Together intertwin'd and trammel'd fresh

The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,

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.

One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,

Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;

And, ever and anon, uprose to look

At the youth's slumber; while another took

A willow-bough, distilling oderous dew,

And shook it on his hair; another flew

In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise

Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.

At these enchantments, and yet many more,

The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er;

Until, impatient in embarrassment,

He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went

To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway,

Smiling, thus whisper'd " though from upper day

Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here

Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer!

For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour,

Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;

As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence

Was I in no wise startled. So recline

Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,

Alive with sparkles — never, I aver,

Since Ariadne was a vintager,

So cool a purple taste these juicy pears,

Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears

Were high about Pomona: here is cream,

Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;

Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd

For the boy Jupiter and here, undimm'd

By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums

Ready to melt between an infant's gums

And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees,

In starlight, by the three Hesperides.

Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know

Of all these things around us. " He did so,

Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre;

And thus " I need not any hearing tire

By telling how the sea-born goddess pin'd

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind

Who would not be so imprison'd? but, fond elf,

He was content to let her amorous plea

Faint through his careless arms; content to see

An unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet;

Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,

When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,

Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born

Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes

Were clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs

Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.

Hush! no exclaim — yet, justly mightst thou call

Curses upon his head. — I was half glad,

But my poor mistress went distract and mad,

When the boar tusk'd him so away she flew

To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew

Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;

Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd

Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he,

That same Adonis, safe in the privacy

Of this still region all his winter-sleep.

Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep

Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower

Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness

The which she fills with visions, and doth dress

In all this quiet luxury; and hath set

Us young immortals, without any let,

To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd,

Even to a moment's filling up, and fast

She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through

The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew

Embower'd sports in cytherea's isle.

Look! how those winged listeners all this while

Stand anxious see! behold! " — this clamant word

Broke through the careful silence; for they heard

A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd

Pigeons and doves adonis something mutter'd,

The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh

Lay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and gradually

Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum

Of sudden voices, echoing, " come! come!

Arise! awake! clear summer has forth walk'd

Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd

Full soothingly to every nested finch

Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinch

To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!"

Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,

And doubling over head their little fists

In backward yawns. But all were soon alive

For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive

In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair,

So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air

Odorous and enlivening; making all

To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call

For their sweet queen when lo! the wreathed green

Disparted, and far upward could be seen

Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,

Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,

Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling chill

On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still

Nestle and turn uneasily about.

Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd out,

And silken traces tighten'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'd

A tumult to his heart, and a new life

Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,

But meeting her blue orbs! who, who can write

Of these first minutes? the unchariest muse

To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.

O it has ruffled every spirit there,

Saving love's self, who stands superb to share

The general gladness awfully he stands;

A sovereign quell is in his waving hands;

No sight can bear the lightning of his bow;

His quiver is mysterious, none can know

What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes

There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes

A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who

Look full upon it feel anon the blue

Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.

Endymion feels it, and no more controls

The burning prayer within him; so, bent low,

He had begun a plaining of his woe.

But Venus, bending forward, said " My child,

Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild

With love — he — but alas! too well I see

Thou know'st the deepness of his misery.

Ah, smile not so, my son I tell thee true,

The endless sleep of this new-born Adon ' ,

This stranger ay I pitied. For upon

A dreary morning once I fled away

Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray

For this my love for vexing Mars had teaz'd

Me even to tears thence, when a little eas'd

Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood,

I saw this youth as he despairing stood

Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind;

Those same full fringed lids a constant blind

Over his sullen eyes I saw him throw

Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though

Death had come sudden; for no jot he mov'd,

Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he lov'd

Some fair immortal, and that his embrace

Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace

Of this in heaven I have mark'd each cheek,

And find it is the vainest thing to seek;

And that of all things 'tis kept secretest.

Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest

So still obey the guiding hand that fends

Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends.

And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu!

Here must we leave thee. " — At these words up flew

The impatient doves, up rose the floating car,

Up went the hum celestial. High afar

The Latmian saw them minish into nought;

And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.

When all was darkened, with Etnean throe

The earth clos'd — gave a solitary moan —

And left him once again in twilight lone.

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast,

For all those visions were o'ergone, and past,

And he in loneliness he felt assur'd

Of happy times, when all he had endur'd

Would seem a feather to the mighty prize.

So, with unusual gladness, on he hies

Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore,

Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor,

Black polish'd porticos of awful shade,

And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,

Leading afar past wild magnificence,

Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence

Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,

Streams subterranean tease their granite beds;

Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads

Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash

The waters with his spear; but at the splash,

Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose

Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose

His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round

Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound,

Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells

Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells

On this delight; for, every minute's space,

The streams with changed magic interlace

Sometimes like delicatest lattices,

Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping trees,

Moving about as in a gentle wind,

Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd,

Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies,

Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries

Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.

Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare;

And then the water, into stubborn streams

Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,

Of those dusk places in times far aloof

Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewel

To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell,

And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,

Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes,

Blackening on every side, and overhead

A vaulted dome like heaven's, far bespread

With starlight gems aye, all so huge and strange,

The solitary felt a hurried change

Working within him into something dreary, —

Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary,

And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds.

But he revives at once for who beholds

New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough?

Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below,

Came mother Cybele! alone — alone —

In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown

About her majesty, and front death-pale,

With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale

The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws,

Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws

Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails

This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away

In another gloomy arch. Wherefore delay,

Young traveller, in such a mournful place?

Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace

The diamond path? And does it indeed end

Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend

Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne

Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn;

Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost;

To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost

Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings,

Without one impious word, himself he flings,

Committed to the darkness and the gloom

Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,

Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell

Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,

And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd,

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'd

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd

Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem'd

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown

With golden moss. His every sense had grown

Ethereal for pleasure; 'bove his head

Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread

Was Hesperean; to his capable ears

Silence was music from the holy spheres;

A dewy luxury was in his eyes;

The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs

And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell

He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell

Of sudden exaltation but, " Alas!"

Said he, " will all this gush of feeling pass

Away in solitude? And must they wane,

Like melodies upon a sandy plain,

Without an echo? Then shall I be left

So sad, so melancholy, so bereft!

Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,

My breath of life, where art thou? High above,

Dancing before the morning gates of heaven?

Or keeping watch among those starry seven,

Old Atlas' children? Art a maid of the waters,

One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters?

Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian's,

For very idleness? where'er thou art,

Methinks it now is at my will to start

Into thine arms; to scare Aurora's train,

And snatch thee from the morning; o'er the main

To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off

From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff

Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves.

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives

Its powerless self I know this cannot be.

O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee

To her entrancements hither, sleep, awhile!

Hither, most gentle sleep! and soothing foil

For some few hours the coming solitude."

Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued

With power to dream deliciously; so wound

Through a dim passage, searching till he found

The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where

He threw himself, and just into the air

Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss!

A naked waist " Fair Cupid, whence is this?"

A well-known voice sigh'd, " Sweetest, here am i!"

At which soft ravishment, with doating cry

O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon!

That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er

These sorry pages; then the verse would soar

And sing above this gentle pair, like lark

Over his nested young but all is dark

Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount

Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count

Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll

Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll

Is in Apollo's hand our dazed eyes

Have seen a new tinge in the western skies

The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet,

Although the sun of poesy is set,

These lovers did embrace, and we must weep

That there is no old power left to steep

A quill immortal in their joyous tears.

Long time in silence did their anxious fears

Question that thus it was; long time they lay

Fondling and kissing every doubt away;

Long time ere soft caressing sobs began

To mellow into words, and then there ran

Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips.

Such darling essence, wherefore may I not

Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot

Pillow my chin for ever? ever press

These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess?

Why not for ever and for ever feel

That breath about my eyes? ah, thou wilt steal

Away from me again, indeed, indeed —

Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed

My lonely madness. Speak, delicious fair!

Is it to be so? No! Who will dare

To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will,

Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still

Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now

How can we part? Elysium! who art thou?

Who, that thou canst not be for ever here,

Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere?

Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace,

By the most soft completion of thy face,

Those lips, o slippery blisses, twinkling eyes,

And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties —

These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,

The passion " — " O dov'd Ida the divine!

Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!

How he does love me! His poor temples beat

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet.

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by

In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least

My lips to thine, that they may richly feast

Until we taste the life of love again.

What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain!

I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive;

And so long absence from thee doth bereave

My soul of any rest yet must I hence

Yet, can I not to starry eminence

Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own

Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan

Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy,

And I must blush in heaven. O that I

Had done 't already; that the dreadful smiles

At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles,

Had waned from Olympus' solemn height,

And from all serious Gods; that our delight

And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes

Yet must I be a coward! — Horror rushes

Too palpable before me — the sad look

Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook

With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion

In reverence vailed — my crystalline dominion

Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity!

But what is this to love? O I could fly

With thee into the ken of heavenly powers,

So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours,

Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once

That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce —

Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown —

O I do think that I have been alone

In chastity yes, Pallas has been sighing,

While every eve saw me my hair uptying

With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love,

I was as vague as solitary dove,

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss —

Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,

An immortality of passion's thine

Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade;

And I will tell thee stories of the sky,

And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy.

My happy love will overwing all bounds!

O let me melt into thee; let the sounds

Of our close voices marry at their birth;

Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth

Of human words! roughness of mortal speech!

Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach

Thine honied tongue — lute-breathings, which I gasp

To have thee understand, now while I clasp

Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd,

Endymion woe! woe! is grief contain'd

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life? " —

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife

Melted into a languor. He return'd

Entranced vows and tears. Ye who have yearn'd

With too much passion, will here stay and pity,

For the mere sake of truth; as 'tis a ditty

Not of these days, but long ago 'twas told

By a cavern wind unto a forest old;

To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam

A poet caught as he was journeying

To Phoebus' shrine; and in it he did fling

His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space,

And, after straight, in that inspired place

He sang the story up into the air,

Giving it universal freedom. There

Has it been ever sounding for those ears

Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers

Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it

Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it

For quenchless burnings come upon the heart,

Made fiercer by a fear lest any part

Should be engulphed in the eddying wind.

As much as here is penn'd doth always find

A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain;

Anon the strange voice is upon the wane —

And 'tis but echo'd from departing sound,

That the fair visitant at last unwound

Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. —

Thus the tradition of the gusty deep.

Now turn we to our former chroniclers. —

Endymion awoke, that grief of hers

How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd

His empty arms together, hung his head,

And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed

Sat silently. Love's madness he had known

Often with more than tortured lion's groan

Moanings had burst from him; but now that rage

Had pass'd away no longer did he wage

A rough-voic'd war against the dooming stars.

No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars

The lyre of his soul Eolian tun'd

Forgot all violence, and but commun'd

With melancholy thought O he had swoon'd

Drunken from pleasure's nipple; and his love

Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move

From the imprinted couch, and when he did,

'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid

In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd

Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd

Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen

Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean

Over eclipsing eyes and at the last

It was a sounding grotto, vaulted vast,

And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls,

Of every shape and size, even to the bulk

In which whales arbour close, to brood and sulk

Against an endless storm. Moreover too,

Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue,

Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder

Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder

On all his life his youth, up to the day

When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay,

He stept upon his shepherd throne the look

Of his white palace in wild forest nook,

And all the revels he had lorded there

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair,

With every friend and fellow-woodlander —

Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur

Of the old bards to mighty deeds his plans

To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans

That wondrous night the great Pan-festival

His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all,

Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd

Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd

High with excessive love. " And now, " thought he,

Of blank amazements that amaze no more?

Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core

All other depths are shallow essences,

Once spiritual, are like muddy lees,

Meant but to fertilize my earthly root,

And make my branches lift a golden fruit

Into the bloom of heaven other light,

Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight

The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark,

Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark!

My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells;

Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells

Of noises far away? — list! " — Hereupon

He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone

Came louder, and behold, there as he lay,

On either side outgush'd, with misty spray,

A copious spring; and both together dash'd

Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd

Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot,

Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot

Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise

As of some breathless racers whose hopes poize

Upon the last few steps, and with spent force

Endymion follow'd — for it seem'd that one

Ever pursued, the other strove to shun —

Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh

He had left thinking of the mystery, —

And was now rapt in tender hoverings

Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah! what is it sings

His dream away? What melodies are these?

They sound as through the whispering of trees,

Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear!

"O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear

Such tenderness as mine? Great dian, why,

Why didst thou hear her prayer? o that I

Were rippling round her dainty fairness now,

Circling about her waist, and striving how

To entice her to a dive! then stealing in

Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin.

O that her shining hair was in the sun,

And I distilling from it thence to run

In amorous rillets down her shrinking form!

To linger on her lily shoulders, warm

Between her kissing breasts, and every charm

Touch raptur'd! — See how painfully I flow

Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead,

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead

Where all that beauty snar'd me. " — " Cruel god,

Desist! or my offended mistress' nod

Will stagnate all thy fountains — tease me not

With syren words — Ah, have I really got

Such power to madden thee? And is it true —

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue

My very thoughts in mercy then away,

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey

My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane. —

O, oread-queen-! would that thou hadst a pain

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn

And be a criminal. — Alas, I burn,

I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence.

Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods.

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods,

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave;

But ever since I heedlessly did lave

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow

Grew strong within me wherefore serve me so,

And call it love? alas, 'twas cruelty.

Amid the thrushes' song. Away! Avaunt!

O 'twas a cruel thing. " — " Now thou dost taunt

So softly, Arethusa, that I think

If thou wast playing on my shady brink,

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid!

Stifle thine heart no more; — nor be afraid

Of angry powers there are deities

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs

'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour

A dewy balm upon them! — fear no more,

Sweet Arethusa! Dian's self must feel

Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly

These dreary caverns for the open sky

I will delight thee all my winding course,

From the green sea up to my hidden source

About Arcadian forests; and will show

The channels where my coolest waters flow

Through mossy rocks; where, 'mid exuberant green,

I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen

Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim

Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim

Buzz from their honied wings and thou shouldst please

Thyself to choose the richest, where we might

Be incense-pillow'd every summer night.

Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,

And let us be thus comforted; unless

Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream

Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam,

And pour to death along some hungry sands. " —

"What can I do, Alpheus? Dian stands

Severe before me persecuting fate!

Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late

A huntress free in " — At this, sudden fell

Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell.

The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more,

Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er

The name of Arethusa. On the verge

Of that dark gulph he wept, and said " I urge

Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage,

By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage,

If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains;

And make them happy in some happy plains."

He turn'd — there was a whelming sound — he stept,

Towards it by a sandy path, and lo!

More suddenly than doth a moment go,

The visions of the earth were gone and fled —

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men

With most prevailing tinsel who unpen

Their baaing vanities, to browse away

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men

With most prevailing tinsel who unpen

Their baaing vanities, to browse away

The comfortable green and juicy hay

From human pastures; or, O torturing fact!

Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd

Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe

Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge

Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight

Able to face an owl's, they still are dight

By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,

And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts,

Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount

To their spirit's perch, their being's high account,

Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones —

Amid the fierce intoxicating tones

Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums,

And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums,

Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,

And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. —

Are then regalities all gilded masks?

No, there are throned seats unscalable

But by a patient wing, a constant spell,

Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd,

Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,

And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents

To watch the abysm-birth of elements.

Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate

A thousand Powers keep religious state,

In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;

And, silent as a consecrated urn,

Hold sphery sessions for a season due.

Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!

Have bared their operations to this globe —

Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe

Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence

Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense

Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude,

As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud

'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,

Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest,

When thy gold breath is misting in the west,

She unobserved steals unto her throne,

And there she sits most meek and most alone;

As if she had not pomp subservient;

As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent

Towards her with the Muses in thine heart;

As if the ministring stars kept not apart,

Waiting for silver-footed messages.

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din

The while they feel thine airy fellowship.

Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip

Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,

Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine

Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,

Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;

And yet thy benediction passeth not

One obscure hiding-place, one little spot

Where pleasure may be sent the nested wren

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,

Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief

To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps

Within its pearly house. — The mighty deeps,

The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea!

O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,

And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.

Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode

Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine

Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine

For one as sorrowful thy cheek is pale

For one whose cheek is pale thou dost bewail

His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh?

Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,

Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!

How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!

She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness

Is wan on Neptune's blue yet there's a stress

Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,

Dancing upon the waves, as if to please

The curly foam with amorous influence.

O, not so idle for down-glancing thence

She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about

The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning

Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning.

Where will the spendour be content to reach?

O love! how potent hast thou been to teach

Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells,

In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells,

In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun,

Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won.

Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath;

Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death;

Thou madest Pluto bear thin element;

And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent

A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world,

To find Endymion. On gold sand impearl'd

With lily shells, and pebbles milky white,

Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light

Against his pallid face he felt the charm

To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm

Of his heart's blood 'twas very sweet; he stay'd

His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid

His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,

To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,

Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.

Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand

Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd

Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came

Meekly through billows — when like taper-flame

Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,

He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare

Along his fated way. Far had he roam'd,

With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd

Above, around, and at his feet; save things

More dead than Morpheus' imaginings;

Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large

Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe;

Rudders that for a hundred years had lost

The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd

With long-forgotten story, and wherein

No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin

But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls,

Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls

Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude

In ponderous stone, developing the mood

Of ancient Nox; — then skeletons of man,

Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,

Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe

These secrets struck into him; and unless

Dian had chaced away that heaviness,

He might have died but now, with cheered feel,

He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal

About the labyrinth in his soul of love.

"What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move

My heart so potently? When yet a child

I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd.

Thou seem'dst my sister hand in hand we went

From eve to morn across the firmament.

No apples would I gather from the tree,

Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously

No tumbling water ever spake romance,

But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance

No woods were green enough, no bower divine,

Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine

In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,

Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;

And, in the summer tide of blossoming,

No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing

And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.

No melody was like a passing spright

Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain

By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;

And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend

With all my ardours thou wast the deep glen;

Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen —

The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun;

Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won;

Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed —

My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed —

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!

O what a wild and harmonized tune

My spirit struck from all the beautiful!

On some bright essence could I lean, and lull

Myself to immortality I prest

Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest.

But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss —

My strange love came — Felicity's abyss!

She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away —

Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway

Has been an under-passion to this hour.

Now I begin to feel thine orby power

Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind,

My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive

That I can think away from thee and live! —

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!

How far beyond! " At this a surpris'd start

Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;

For as he lifted up his eyes to swear

How his own goddess was past all things fair,

He saw far in the concave green of the sea

An old man sitting calm and peacefully.

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,

And his white hair was awful, and a mat

Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,

A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones,

O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans

Of ambitious magic every ocean-form

Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar,

Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted shore

Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape.

Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell

To its huge self; and the minutest fish

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish,

And shew his little eye's anatomy.

Then there was pictur'd the regality

Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state,

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,

And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd

So stedfastly, that the new denizen

Had time to keep him in amazed ken,

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw

The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see,

His features were so lifeless. Suddenly

He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows

Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs

Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large,

Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,

Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile.

Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil

Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage,

Who had not from mid-life to utmost age

Even to the trees. He rose he grasp'd his stole,

With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad,

And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd

Echo into oblivion, he said —

"Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head

In peace upon my watery pillow now

Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.

O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!

O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung

With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,

When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? —

I'll swim to the sirens, and one moment listen

Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;

Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be,

That writhes about the roots of Sicily

To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail,

And mount upon the snortings of a whale

To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep

On forked lightning, to the deepest deep,

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd

With rapture to the other side of the world!

O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,

Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign,

For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.

Thou art the man! " Endymion started back

Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,

Mutter'd " What lonely death am I to die

In this cold region! Will he let me freeze,

And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas?

Or will he touch me with his searing hand,

And leave a black memorial on the sand?

Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,

And keep me as a chosen food to draw

His magian fish through hated fire and flame?

O misery of hell! resistless, tame,

Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,

Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! —

O Tartarus! but some few days agone

Her soft arms were entwining me, and on

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves

Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves

Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,

But never may be garner'd. I must stoop

Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell

Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind

Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind

I see the streaming hair! and now, by Pan,

I care not for this old mysterious man!"

He spake, and walking to that aged form,

Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm

With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept.

Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept?

Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought

Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to humane thought,

Convulsion to a mouth of many years?

He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.

The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt

Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt

About his large dark locks, and faultering spake

"Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake!

I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel

A very brother's yearning for thee steal

Into mine own for why? thou openest

The prison gates that have so long opprest

My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not,

Thou art commission'd to this fated spot

I am a friend to love, to loves of yore

Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power,

I had been grieving at this joyous hour.

But even now most miserable old,

I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold

Gave mighty pulses in this tottering case

Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays

As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid,

For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd,

Now as we speed towards our joyous task."

So saying, this young soul in age's mask

Went forward with the Carian side by side

Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide

Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands

Took silently their foot-prints. " My soul stands

Now past the midway from mortality,

And so I can prepare without a sigh

To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain.

I was a fisher once, upon this main,

And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay;

Rough billows were my home by night and day, —

The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had

But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces

Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease

Long years of misery have told me so.

Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago.

One thousand years! — Is it then possible

To look so plainly through them? to dispel

A thousand years with backward glance sublime?

To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime

From off a crystal pool, to see its deep,

And one's own image from the bottom peep?

Yes now I am no longer wretched thrall,

My long captivity and moanings all

Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum,

The which I breathe away, and thronging come

Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures.

"I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures

I was a lonely youth on desert shores.

My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars,

And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry

Plaining discrepant between sea and sky.

Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen

Would let me feel their scales of gold and green,

Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,

Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe

To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe

My life away like a vast sponge of fate,

Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state,

Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down,

And left me tossing safely. But the crown

Of all my life was utmost quietude

More did I love to lie in cavern rude,

Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice,

And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!

There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer

My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear

The shepherd's pipe coming clear from aery steep,

Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep

And never was a day of summer shine,

But I beheld its birth upon the brine

For I would watch all night to see unfold

Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold

Wide o'er the swelling streams and constantly

At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,

My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.

The poor folk of the sea-country I blest

They knew not whence this bounty, and elate

Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.

"Why was I not contented? wherefore reach

At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!

Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began

To feel distemper'd longings to desire

The utmost privilege that ocean's sire

Could grant in benediction to be free

Of all his kingdom. Long in misery

I wasted, ere in one extremest fit

I plung'd for life or death. To interknit

One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff

Might seem a work of pain; so not enough

Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,

And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt

Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;

Forgetful utterly of self-intent;

Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.

Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew

His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,

I tried in fear the pinions of my will.

'Twas freedom! and at once I visited

No need to tell thee of them, for I see

That thou hast been a witness — it must be —

For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth,

By the melancholy corners of that mouth.

So I will in my story straightway pass

To more immediate matter. Woe, alas!

That love should be my bane! ah, Scylla fair!

Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare

To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth!

I lov'd her to the very white of truth,

And she would not conceive it. Timid thing!

She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing,

Round every isle, and point, and promontory,

From where large Hercules wound up his story

Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew

The more, the more I saw her dainty hue

Gleam delicately through the azure clear

Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear;

And in that agony, across my grief

It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief —

Cruel enchantress! So above the water

I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter.

Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon —

Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.

"When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower;

Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees,

Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees.

How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre,

And over it a sighing voice expire.

It ceased — I caught light footsteps; and anon

The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon

Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove!

With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove

A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all

The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall

The dew of her rich speech " Ah! Art awake?

"O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake!

"I am so oppress'd with joy! why, I have shed

"An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead;

"And now I find thee living, I will pour

"From these devoted eyes their silver store,

"Until exhausted of the latest drop,

"So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop

"Here, that I too may live but if beyond

"Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond

"If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream;

"If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute,

"Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit,

"O let me pluck it for thee. " Thus she link'd

Her charming syllables, till indistinct

Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul;

And then she hover'd over me, and stole

So near, that if no nearer it had been

This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen.

"Young man of Latmos! thus particular

Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far

This fierce temptation went and thou may'st not

Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot?

"Who could resist? Who in this universe?

She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse

My fine existence in a golden clime.

She took me like a child of suckling time,

And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd,

The current of my former life was stemm'd,

And to this arbitrary queen of sense

I bow'd a tranced vassal nor would thence

Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd

For as Apollo each eve doth devise

A new appareling for western skies;

So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour

Shed balmy consciousness within that bower.

And I was free of haunts umbrageous;

Could wander in the mazy forest-house

Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer,

And birds from coverts innermost and drear

Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow —

To me new born delights! " now let me borrow,

For moments few, a temperament as stern

As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn

These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell

How specious heaven was changed to real hell.

"One morn she left me sleeping half awake

I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake

My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts;

But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts

Of disappointment stuck in me so sore,

That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er.

Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom

Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom

A sound of moan, an agony of sound,

Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled

That fierce complain to silence while I stumbled

Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd.

I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swell'd

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew,

The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue,

That glar'd before me through a thorny brake.

This fire, like the eye of gordian snake,

Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear

In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene —

The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen,

Seated upon an uptorn forest root;

And all around her shapes, wizard and brute,

Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting,

Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting!

O such deformities! Old Charon's self,

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf,

And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian,

It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan,

And tyrannizing was the lady's look,

As over them a gnarled staff she shook.

And from a basket emptied to the rout

Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick

And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow,

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe,

And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial

Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones.

She lifted up the charm appealing groans

From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear

In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier

She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil.

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil,

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage,

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage;

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat

And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat

Then was appalling silence then a sight

More wildering than all that hoarse affright;

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen,

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish'd.

Yet there was not a breath of wind she banish'd

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark,

With dancing and loud revelry, — and went

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. —

Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud

In human accent " Potent goddess! chief

Of pains resistless! make my being brief,

Or let me from this heavy prison fly

Or give me to the air, or let me die!

I sue not for my happy crown again;

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;

I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife;

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys

I will forget them; I will pass these joys;

Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too high

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die,

Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh,

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,

And merely given to the cold bleak air.

Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!"

"That curst magician's name fell icy numb

Naked and sabre-like against my heart.

I saw a fury whetting a death-dart;

And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright,

Fainted away in that dark lair of night.

Think, my deliverer, how desolate

My waking must have been! disgust, and hate,

And terrors manifold divided me

A spoil amongst them. I prepar'd to flee

Into the dungeon core of that wild wood

I fled three days — when lo! before me stood

Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now,

A clammy dew is beading on my brow,

At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse.

"Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse

Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express,

To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee yes,

I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch

My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch.

So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies

Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries

Upon some breast more lily-feminine.

More than one pretty, trifling thousand years;

And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt!

Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt

One hair of thine see how I weep and sigh,

That our heart-broken parting is so nigh.

And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so.

Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe,

Let me sob over thee my last adieus,

And speak a blessing Mark me! Thou hast thews

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race

But such a love is mine, that here I chase

Eternally away from thee all bloom

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb.

Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast;

And there, ere many days be overpast,

Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men;

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe

Ten hundred years which gone, I then bequeath

Thy fragile bones to unknown burial.

Adieu, sweet love, adieu! " — As shot stars fall,

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell.

A hand was at my shoulder to compel

My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes

Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise

Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam

I found me; by my fresh, my native home.

Its tempering coolness, to my life akin,

Came salutary as I waded in;

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave

Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave

Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd

Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd.

"Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite

With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might

Proving upon this element, dismay'd,

Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid;

I look'd — 'twas Scylla! cursed, cursed Circe!

O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy?

Could not thy harshest vengeance be content,

But thou must nip this tender innocent

Because I lov'd her? — Cold, O cold indeed

Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed

I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass

Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine,

Until there shone a fabric crystalline,

Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl.

Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl

Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold!

'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold;

And all around — But wherefore this to thee

Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? —

I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled.

My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread

Met palsy half way soon these limbs became

Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame.

"Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space,

Without one hope, without one faintest trace

Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble

Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble

Thy brain to loss of reason and next tell

How a restoring chance came down to quell

One half of the witch in me. " On a day,

Sitting upon a rock above the spray,

I saw grow up from the horizon's brink

Away from me again, as though her course

Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force —

So vanish'd and not long, before arose

Dark clouds, and mutterings of winds morose.

Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen,

But could not therefore all the billows green

Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds.

The tempest came I saw that vessel's shrouds

In perilous bustle; while upon the deck

Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck;

The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls

I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls.

O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld

Annull'd my vigorous cravings and thus quell'd

And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit

Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit

Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone,

By one and one, to pale oblivion;

And I was gazing on the surges prone,

With many a scalding tear and many a groan,

When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand,

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand.

I knelt with pain — reached out my hand — had grasp'd

I caught a finger but the downward weight

O'erpowered me — it sank. Then 'gan abate

The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst

The comfortable sun. I was athirst

To search the book, and in the warming air

Parted its dripping leaves with eager care.

Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on

My soul page after page, till well-nigh won

Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied,

I read these words, and read again, and tried

My eyes against the heavens, and read again.

O what a load of misery and pain

Each Atlas-line bore off! — a shine of hope

Came gold around me, cheering me to cope

Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend!

For thou hast brought their promise to an end.

Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch

His loath'd existence through ten centuries,

And then to die alone. Who can devise

A total opposition? No one. So

One million times ocean must ebb and flow,

These things accomplish'd — If he utterly

Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds

The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds;

If he explores all forms and substances

Straight homeward to their symbol-essences;

He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief,

He must pursue this task of joy and grief

Most piously; — all lovers tempest-tost,

And in the savage overwhelming lost,

He shall deposit side by side, until

Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil

Which done, and all these labours ripened,

A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led,

Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct

How to consummate all. The youth elect

Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd. " —

"Then, " cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd,

"We are twin brothers in this destiny!

Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high

Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd.

What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd,

Had we both perish'd? " — " Look! " the sage replied,

Of diverse brilliances? 'tis the edifice

I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies;

And where I have enshrined piously

All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die

Throughout my bondage. " Thus discoursing, on

They went till unobscur'd the porches shone;

Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight.

Sure never since king Neptune held his state

Was seen such wonder underneath the stars.

Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars

Has legion'd all his battle; and behold

How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold

His even breast see, many steeled squares,

And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares

One step? Imagine further, line by line,

These warrior thousands on the field supine —

So in that crystal place, in silent rows,

Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. —

The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd

Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed;

Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips

All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips.

He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair

And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence,

Put cross-wise to its heart. " Let us commence,"

Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, " even now."

He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough,

Began to tear his scroll in pieces small,

Uttering the while some mumblings funeral.

He tore it into pieces small as snow

That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow;

And having done it, took his dark blue cloak

And bound it round Endymion then stroke

His wand against the empty air times nine. —

"What more there is to do, young man, is thine

But first a little patience; first undo

This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue.

Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein;

And shouldst thou break it — What, is it done so clean?

A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave!

The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave.

Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me,

Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery —

Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake!

Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break

'Twas done and straight with sudden swell and fall

Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd

A lullaby to silence. — " Youth! now strew

These minced leaves on me, and passing through

Those files of dead, scatter the same around,

And thou wilt see the issue. " — 'Mid the sound

Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart,

Endymion from Glaucus stood apart,

And scatter'd in his face some fragments light.

How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight

Smiling beneath a coral diadem,

Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem,

Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse,

Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force

Press'd its cold hand, and wept — and Scylla sigh'd!

Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied —

The nymph arose he left them to their joy,

And onward went upon his high employ,

Showering those powerful fragments on the dead.

And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head,

As doth a flower at Apollo's touch.

Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much

Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house.

All were re-animated. There arose

A noise of harmony, pulses and throes

Of gladness in the air — while many, who

Had died in mutual arms devout and true,

Sprang to each other madly; and the rest

Felt a high certainty of being blest.

They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment

Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent.

Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers,

Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers

Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine.

The two deliverers tasted a pure wine

Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out.

Speechless they eyed each other, and about

The fair assembly wander'd to and fro,

Distracted with the richest overflow

Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. — " Away!"

Shouted the new born god; " Follow, and pay

Our piety to Neptunus supreme! " —

Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream,

They led on first, bent to her meek surprise,

Through portal columns of a giant size,

Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd,

Down marble steps; pouring as easily

As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see

Swallows obeying the south summer's call,

Or swans upon a gentle waterfall.

Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far,

Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar,

Just within ken, they saw descending thick

Another multitude. Whereat more quick

Moved either host. On a wide sand they met,

And of those numbers every eye was wet;

For each their old love found. A murmuring rose,

Like what was never heard in all the throes

Of wind and waters 'tis past human wit

To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it.

This mighty consummation made, the host

Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost

Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array,

And from the rear diminishing away, —

Till a faint dawn surpris'd them. Glaucus cried,

"Behold! behold, the palace of his pride!

God Neptune's palaces! " With noise increas'd,

At every onward step proud domes arose

In prospect, — diamond gleams, and golden glows

Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling.

Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring,

Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd.

Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld

By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts

A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts

Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near

For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere

As marble was there lavish, to the vast

Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd,

Even for common bulk, those olden three,

Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh.

As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow

Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew

Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch

Through which this Paphian army took its march,

Into the outer courts of Neptune's state

Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate,

To which the leaders sped; but not half raught

Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought,

And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes

Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze

Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze,

And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne

Of emerald deep yet not exalt alone;

At his right hand stood winged Love, and on

His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon.

Far as the mariner on highest mast

Can see all round upon the calmed vast,

So wide was Neptune's hall and as the blue

Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew

Their doming curtains, high, magnificent,

Aw'd from the throne aloof; — and when storm-rent

Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air;

But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere,

Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering

Death to a human eye for there did spring

From natural west, and east, and south, and north,

A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth

A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's- head.

Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread

As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe,

Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through

But for the portraiture of clouds and sky

This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze

Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze

Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes,

Globing a golden sphere. They stood in dreams

Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang;

The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang;

And the great Sea-King- bow'd his dripping head.

Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed

On all the multitude a nectarous dew.

The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew

Fair Scylla and her guides to conference;

And when they reach'd the throned eminence

She kist the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her down

A toying with the doves. Then, — " Mighty crown

And sceptre of this kingdom! " Venus said,

"Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid

Behold! " — Two copious tear-drops instant fell

From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable,

And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. —

"Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands

Of Love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour

Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet

Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net?

A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long,

Or I am skilless quite an idle tongue,

A humid eye, and steps luxurious,

Where these are new and strange, are ominous.

Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven,

When others were all blind; and were I given

To utter secrets, haply I might say

Some pleasant words — but love will have his day.

So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon,

Even in the passing of thine honey-moon,

Visit thou my Cythera thou wilt find

Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind;

And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have done,

All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son! " —

Thus the fair goddess while Endymion

Knelt to receive those accents halcyon.

Meantime a glorious revelry began

Before the Water-Monarch-. Nectar ran

In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd;

And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd

New growth about each shell and pendent lyre;

Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture

For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure,

Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng

Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song,

And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd.

In harmless tendril they each other chain'd,

And strove who should be smother'd deepest in

Fresh crush of leaves. O 'tis a very sin

For one so weak to venture his poor verse

In such a place as this. O do not curse,

High Muses! let him hurry to the ending.

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending

Of dulcet instruments came charmingly;

And then a hymn. " King of the stormy sea!

Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor

Of elements! Eternally before

Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock,

At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock

Its deep foundations, hissing into foam.

All mountain-rivers lost in the wide home

Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow.

Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe

Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint

When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam

Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team

Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along

To bring thee nearer to that golden song

Apollo singeth, while his chariot

Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not

For scenes like this an empire stern hast thou;

And it hath furrow'd that large front yet now,

As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit

To blend and interknit

Subdued majesty with this glad time.

O shell-borne King sublime!

We lay our hearts before thee evermore —

We sing, and we adore!

"Breathe softly, flutes;

Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes;

Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain;

Not flowers budding in an April rain,

Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, —

No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow,

Can mingle music fit for the soft ear

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes

On our souls' sacrifice.

"Bright-winged Child!

Who has another care when thou hast smil'd?

Unfortunates on earth, we see at last

All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast

Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions.

O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions!

God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair,

And panting bosoms bare!

Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser

Of light in light! delicious poisoner

Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until

We fill — we fill!

And by thy Mother's lips — " was heard no more

For clamour, when the golden palace door

Opened again, and from without, in shone

A new magnificence. On oozy throne

Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old,

To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold,

Before he went into his quiet cave

To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave,

Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea,

Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse —

Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs,

Theban Amphion leaning on his lute

His fingers went across it — All were mute

To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls,

And Thetis pearly too. — The palace whirls

Around giddy Endymion; seeing he

Was there far strayed from mortality.

He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain;

Imagination gave a dizzier pain.

"O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay!

Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away!

I die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing —"

At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring

Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife

To usher back his spirit into life

But still he slept. At last they interwove

Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey

Towards a crystal bower far away.

Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd,

To his inward senses these words spake aloud;

Written in star-light on the dark above

How have i dwelt in fear of fate 'tis done —

Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won.

Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch

Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch

Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake!

The youth at once arose a placid lake

Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green,

Cooler than all the wonders he had seen,

Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast.

How happy once again in grassy nest!

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!

O first-born on the mountains! by the hues

Of heaven on the spiritual air begot

Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,

While yet our England was a wolfish den;

Before our forests heard the talk of men;

Before the first of Druids was a child; —

Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild

Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.

There came an eastern voice of solemn mood —

Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,

Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,

"Come hither, Sister of the Island! " Plain

Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake

A higher summons — still didst thou betake

Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won

A full accomplishment! The thing is done,

Which undone, these our latter days had risen

On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison

Of flesh and bone curbs, and confines, and frets

Our spirit's wings despondency besets

Our pillows; and the fresh tomorrow-morn

Seems to give forth its light in very scorn

Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.

Long have I said, how happy he who shrives

To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,

And could not pray — nor can I now — so on

I move to the end in lowliness of heart. —

"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part

From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!

Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade

Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!

To one so friendless the clear freshet yields

Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour

Of native air — let me but die at home."

Endymion to heaven's airy dome

Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,

When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows

His head through thorny-green entanglement

Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,

Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.

"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn

Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying

To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?

No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet

That I may worship them? No eyelids meet

To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies

Before me, till from these enslaving eyes

Redemption sparkles! — I am sad and lost."

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost

Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air,

Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear

A woman's sigh alone and in distress?

See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless?

Phoebe is fairer far — o gaze no more —

Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store,

Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass

For tenderness the arms so idly lain

Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain,

To see such lovely eyes in swimming search

After some warm delight, that seems to perch

Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond

Their upper lids? — Hist! " o for Hermes' wand,

To touch this flower into human shape!

That woodland Hyacinthus could escape

From his green prison, and here kneeling down

Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown!

Ah me, how I could love! — My soul doth melt

For the unhappy youth — Love! I have felt

So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender

To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,

That but for tears my life had fled away! —

Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,

And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,

There is no lightning, no authentic dew

But in the eye of love there's not a sound,

Melodious howsoever, can confound

The heavens and earth in one to such a death

Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,

Till it has panted round, and stolen a share

Of passion from the heart! " — upon a bough

He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now

Thirst for another love: O impious,

That he can even dream upon it thus! —

Thought he, " Why am I not as are the dead,

Since to a woe like this I have been led

Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?

Goddess! I love thee not the less from thee

By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no —

While the great waters are at ebb and flow. —

I have a triple soul! O fond pretence —

For both, for both my love is so immense,

I fell my heart is cut for them in twain."

And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain.

The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see

Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.

He sprang from his green covert there she lay,

Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;

With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes

Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.

Thus violate thy bower's sanctity!

O pardon me, for I am full of grief —

Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!

Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith

I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith

Thou art my executioner, and I feel

Loving and hatred, misery and weal,

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,

And all my story that much passion slew me;

Do smile upon the evening of my days

And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze,

Be thou my nurse; and let me understand

How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. —

Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.

Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament

Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth

Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth

Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst

To meet oblivion. " — As her heart would burst

The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied

"Why must such desolation betide

As that thou speak'st of? Are not these green nooks

Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,

Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to brush

About the dewy forest, whisper tales? —

Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails

Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt,

Methinks 'twould be a guilt — a very guilt —

Not to companion thee, and sigh away

The light — the dusk — the dark — till break of day!"

"Dear lady, " said Endymion, " 'tis past

I love thee! and my days can never last.

That I may pass in patience still speak

Let me have music dying, and I seek

No more delight — I bid adieu to all.

Didst thou not after other climates call,

And murmur about Indian streams? " — Then she,

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,

For pity sang this roundelay —

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips? —

To give maiden blushes

To the white rose bushes?

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye? —

To give the glow-worm light?

Or, on a moonless night,

To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue? —

To give at evening pale

Unto the nightingale,

That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

Heart's lightness from the merriment of May? —

A lover would not tread

A cowslip on the head,

Though he should dance from eve till peep of day —

Nor any drooping flower

Held sacred for thy bower,

Wherever he may sport himself and play.

"To Sorrow,

I bade good-morrow,

But cheerly, cheerly,

She loves me dearly;

She is so constant to me, and so kind

I would deceive her

And so leave her,

But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

"Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,

I sat a weeping in the whole world wide

There was no one to ask me why I wept, —

And so I kept

Brimming the water-lily cups with tears

Cold as my fears.

"Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,

I sat aweeping what enamour'd bride,

Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,

But hides and shrouds

Beneath dark palm trees by a river side?

"And as I sat, over the light blue hills

There came a noise of revellers the rills

Into the wide stream came of purple hue —

'Twas Bacchus and his crew!

The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills

'Twas Bacchus and his kin!

Like to a moving vintage down they came,

Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame;

All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,

To scare thee, Melancholy!

O then, o then, thou wast a simple name!

And I forgot thee, as the berried holly

By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,

Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon —

I rush'd into the folly!

"Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,

Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,

With sidelong laughing;

And little rills of crimson wine imbrued

His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white

For Venus' pearly bite

And near him rode Silenus on his ass,

Pelted with flowers as he on did pass

Tipsily quaffing.

"Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!

So many, and so many, and such glee?

Why have ye left your bowers desolate,

We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,

A conquering!

Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,

We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide —

Come hither, lady fair, and joined be

To our wild minstrelsy!"

"Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!

So many, and so many, and such glee?

Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft? —

For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;

For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,

And cold mushrooms;

For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;

Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth! —

Come hither, lady fair, and joined be

To our mad minstrelsy!"

"Over wide streams and mountains great we went,

And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,

Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,

With Asian elephants

Onward these myriads — with song and dance,

With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance,

Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,

Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil

Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil

With toying oars and silken sails they glide,

Nor care for wind and tide.

"Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes,

From rear to van they scour about the plains;

A three days' journey in a moment done

And always, at the rising of the sun,

About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,

On spleenful unicorn.

"I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown

Before the vine-wreath crown!

I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing

To the silver cymbals' ring!

I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce

Old Tartary the fierce!

The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail,

And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;

Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,

And all his priesthood moans;

Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. —

Sick hearted, weary — so I took a whim

To stray away into these forests drear

Alone, without a peer

And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

"Young stranger!

I've been a ranger

In search of pleasure throughout every clime

Alas! 'tis not for me!

Bewitch'd I sure must be,

To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

"Come then, Sorrow!

Sweetest Sorrow!

Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast

I thought to leave thee

And deceive thee,

But now of all the world I love thee best.

"There is not one,

No, no, not one

u

Thou art her mother,

And her brother,

Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."

And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!

Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;

And listened to the wind that now did stir

About the crisped oaks full drearily,

Yet with as sweet a softness as might be

Remember'd from its velvet summer song.

At last he said " Poor lady, how thus long

Have I been able to endure that voice?

Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice;

I must be thy sad servant evermore

I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.

Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no!

Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?

Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?

O thou could'st foster me beyond the brink

Of recollection! make my watchful care

Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!

Do gently murder half my soul, and I

Shall feel the other half so utterly! —

I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;

O let it blush so ever! let it soothe

My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. —

And this is sure thine other softling — this

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!

Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!

And whisper one sweet word that I may know

This is this world — sweet dewy blossom! " — Woe!

Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he? —

Even these words went echoing dismally

Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone,

Like one repenting in his latest moan;

And while it died away a shade pass'd by,

As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly

Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth

Their timid necks and tremble; so these both

Leant to each other trembling, and sat so

Waiting for some destruction — when lo,

Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime

Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time

Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt

Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt

One moment from his home only the sward

He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward

Swifter than sight was gone — even before

Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear

Above the crystal circlings white and clear;

And catch the cheated eye in wide surprise,

How they can dive in sight and unseen rise —

So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,

Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.

The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame

On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame

The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew,

High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew

Exhal'd to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone,

Far from the earth away — unseen, alone,

Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,

The buoyant life of song can floating be

Above their heads, and follow them untir'd. —

Muse of my native land, am I inspir'd?

This is the giddy air, and I must spread

Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread

Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance

Precipitous I have beneath my glance

Those towering horses and their mournful freight.

Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await

There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade

From some approaching wonder, and behold

Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold

Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,

Dying to embers from their native fire!

There curl'd a purple mist around them; soon,

It seem'd as when around the pale new moon

Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow

'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.

For the first time, since he came nigh dead born

From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn

Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,

He felt aloof the day and morning's prime —

Because into his depth Cimmerian

There came a dream, shewing how a young man,

Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,

Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win

An immortality, and how espouse

Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house.

Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate,

That he might at the threshold one hour wait

To hear the marriage melodies, and then

Sink downward to his dusky cave again.

Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst,

Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;

And scarcely for one moment could be caught

His sluggish form reposing motionless.

Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress

Of vision search'd for him, as one would look

Athwart the sallows of a river nook

To catch a glance at silver throated eels, —

Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals

His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,

With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale

Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.

These raven horses, though they foster'd are

Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop

Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;

Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread

Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, —

And on those pinions, level in mid air,

Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle

Upon a calm sea drifting and meanwhile

The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks

To divine powers from his hand full fain

Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain

He tries the nerve of Phoebuts golden bow,

And asketh where the golden apples grow

Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield,

And strives in vain to unsettle and wield

A Jovian thunderbolt arch Hebe brings

A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings

And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,

And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,

Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.

He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band

Are visible above the Seasons four, —

Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store

In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty-hoar,

Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,

In swells unmitigated, still doth last

To sway their floating morris. " Whose is this?

Whose bugle? " he inquires they smile — " O Dis!

Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know

Its mistress' lips? Not thou? — 'Tis Dian's lo!

She rises crescented! " He looks, 'tis she,

And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;

Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring

Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, o'erhead,

Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,

Beheld awake his very dream the gods

Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;

And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.

O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,

Too well awake, he feels the panting side

Of his delicious lady. He who died

For soaring too audacious in the sun,

When that same treacherous wax began to run,

Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.

His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,

To that fair shadow'd passion puls'd its way —

Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!

So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,

He could not help but kiss her then he grew

Awhile forgetful of all beauty save

Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan crave

Forgiveness yet he turn'd once more to look

At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, —

She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more

At this the shadow wept, melting away.

The Latmian started up " Bright goddess, stay!

Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue,

I have no daedale heart why is it wrung

To desperation? is there nought for me,

Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?"

These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses

Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses

With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath.

"Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe

This murky phantasm! thou contented seem'st

Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st

What horrors may discomfort thee and me.

Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery! —

Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul

Hath no revenge in it as it is whole

In tenderness, would I were whole in love!

Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,

Even when I feel as true as innocence?

I do, I do. — What is this soul then? Whence

Came it? It does not seem my own, and I

Have no self-passion or identity.

By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit

Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet

Shall we away? " He rous'd the steeds they beat

Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,

Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,

And Vesper, risen star, began to throe

In the dusk heavens silverly, when they

Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.

Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange —

Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,

In such wise, in such temper, so aloof

Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,

So witless of their doom, that verily

'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to see;

Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or griev'd, or toy'd —

Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd.

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,

The moon put forth a little diamond peak,

No bigger than an unobserved star,

Or tiny point of fairy scymitar;

Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie

She bow'd into the heavens her timid head.

Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,

While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd

To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd

This beauty in its birth — Despair! despair!

He saw her body fading gaunt and spare

In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz'd her wrist;

It melted from his grasp her hand he kiss'd,

And, horror! kiss'd his own — he was alone.

Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then

Dropt hawkwise to the earth. There lies a den,

Beyond the seeming confines of the space

Made for the soul to wander in and trace

Its own existence, of remotest glooms.

Dark regions are around it, where the tombs

Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce

One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce

Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart

And in these regions many a venom'd dart

At random flies; they are the proper home

Of every ill the man is yet to come

Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.

But few have ever felt how calm and well

There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall

Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,

Yet all is still within and desolate.

Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear

No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier

The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none

Who strive therefore on the sudden it is won.

Just when the sufferer begins to burn,

Then it is free to him; and from an urn,

Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught —

Young Semele such richness never quaft

In her maternal longing! Happy gloom!

Dark paradise! where pale becomes the bloom

Of health by due; where silence dreariest

Is most articulate; where hopes infest;

Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep

Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.

O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!

Pregnant with such a den to save the whole

In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian!

For, never since thy griefs and woes began,

Hast thou felt so content a grievous feud

Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne

With dangerous speed and so he did not mourn

Because he knew not whither he was going.

So happy was he, not the aerial blowing

Of trumpets at clear parley from the east

Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.

They stung the feather'd horse with fierce alarm

He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no charm

Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd

A skyey masque, a pinion'd multitude, —

And silvery was its passing voices sweet

Warbling the while as if to lull and greet

The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,

While past the vision went in bright array.

"Who, who from Dian's feast would be away?

For all the golden bowers of the day

Are empty left? Who, who away would be

From Cynthia's wedding and festivity?

Not Hesperus lo! upon his silver wings

He leans away for highest heaven and sings,

Snapping his lucid fingers merrily! —

Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!

Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,

Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill

Your baskets high

With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,

Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,

Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;

Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,

All gather'd in the dewy morning hie

Away! fly, fly! —

Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,

Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given

Two liquid pulse-streams 'stead of feather'd wings,

Two fan-like fountains, — thine illuminings

For Dian play

Dissolve the frozen purity of air;

Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare

Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright

The Star-Queen's- crescent on her marriage night

Haste, haste away! —

Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!

And of the Bear has Pollux mastery

A third is in the race! who is the third,

Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?

The Lion's mane's on end the Bear how fierce!

The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce

Some enemy far forth his bow is bent

Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent,

Pale unrelentor,

When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing. —

Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying

So timidly among the stars come hither!

Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither

They all are going.

Danae's son, before Jove newly bow'd,

Has wept for thee, calling to jove aloud.

Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral

Ye shall for ever live and love, for all

Thy tears are flowing. —

By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo! — " More

Endymion heard not down his steed him bore,

Prone to the green head of a misty hill.

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.

"Alas! " said he, " were I but always borne

Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn

A path in hell, for ever would I bless

For my own sullen conquering to him

Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim,

Sorrow is but a shadow now I see

The grass; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me!

It is thy voice — divinest! Where? — who? who

Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?

Behold upon this happy earth we are;

Let us aye love each other; let us fare

On forest-fruits, and never, never go

Among the abodes of mortals here below,

Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny!

Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly,

But with thy beauty will I deaden it.

Where didst thou melt to? by thee will I sit

For ever let our fate stop here — a kid

I on this spot will offer pan will bid

Us live in peace, in love and peace among

His forest wildernesses. I have clung

To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen

Or felt but a great dream! O I have been

Presumptuous against love, against the sky,

Against all elements, against the tie

Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs

Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory

Has my own soul conspired so my story

Will I to children utter, and repent.

There never liv'd a mortal man, who bent

His appetite beyond his natural sphere,

But starv'd and died. My sweetest Indian, here,

Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast

My life from too thin breathing gone and past

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel!

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell

Of visionary seas! No, never more

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.

Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast

My love is still for thee. The hour may come

When we shall meet in pure elysium.

On earth I may not love thee; and therefore

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store

All through the teeming year so thou wilt shine

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine,

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss!

My river-lily bud! one human kiss!

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees,

And warm with dew at ooze from living blood!

Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that! — all good

We'll talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now,

Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none;

And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through,

Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew?

O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place;

Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace

Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin'd

For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find,

And by another, in deep dell below,

See, through the trees, a little river go

All in its mid-day gold and glimmering.

Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring,

And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, —

Cresses that grow where no man may them see,

And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag

Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,

That thou mayest always know whither I roam,

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak;

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, —

For yet the past doth prison me. The rill,

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn,

And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn.

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells,

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.

Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,

And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.

I will entice this crystal rill to trace

Love's silver name upon the meadow's face.

I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire;

And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre;

To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear;

To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear,

That I may see thy beauty through the night;

To Flora, and a nightingale shall light

Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods,

And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods

Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright tress.

Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness!

Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be

Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak

Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,

Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice,

And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice

And that affectionate light, those diamond things,

Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs,

Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure.

Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure?

O that I could not doubt! " the mountaineer

Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear

His briar'd path to some tranquillity.

It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye,

And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow;

Answering thus, just as the golden morrow

Beam'd upward from the vallies of the east

"O that the flutter of this heart had ceas'd,

Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away.

Young feather'd tyrant! by a swift decay

Wilt thou devote this body to the earth

And I do think that at my very birth

I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly;

For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee,

Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven

To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do!

When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew

Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave

To the void air, bidding them find out love

But when I came to feel how far above

All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,

All earthly pleasure, all imagin'd good,

Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, —

Even then, that moment, at the thought of this,

Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers,

And languish'd there three days. Ye milder powers,

Am I not cruelly wrong'd? Believe, believe

Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave

With my own fancies garlands of sweet life,

Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife!

I may not be thy love I am forbidden —

Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chidden,

By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath.

Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went henceforth

Ask me no more! I may not utter it,

Nor may I be thy love. We might commit

We might embrace and die voluptuous thought!

Enlarge not to my hunger, or I'm caught

In trammels of perverse deliciousness.

No, no, that shall not be thee will I bless,

And bid a long adieu. " The Carian

No word return'd both lovelorn, silent, wan,

Into the vallies green together went.

Far wandering, they were perforce content

To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;

Nor at each other gaz'd, but heavily

Por'd on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves.

Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves

Me to behold thee thus in last extreme

Ensky'd ere this, but truly that I deem

Truth the best music in a first-born song.

Thy lute-voic'd brother will I sing ere long,

And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided me?

Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity

Has been thy meed for many thousand years;

Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,

Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester; —

Forgetting the old tale. He did not stir

Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls

Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays

Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.

A little onward ran the very stream

By which he took his first soft poppy dream;

And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant

A crescent he had carv'd, and round it spent

His skill in little stars. The teeming tree

Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery,

But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope

Up which he had not fear'd the antelope;

And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade

He had not with his tamed leopards play'd.

Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,

Fly in the air where his had never been —

And yet he knew it not. O treachery!

Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye

With all His sorrowing? He sees her not.

But who so stares on him? his sister sure!

Peona of the woods! — Can she endure —

Impossible — how dearly they embrace!

His lady smiles; delight is in her face;

It is no treachery. " Dear brother mine!

When all great Latmos so exalt will be?

Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;

And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.

Sure I will not believe thou hast such store

Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.

Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,

Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.

Be happy both of you! for I will pull

The flowers of autumn for your coronals.

Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls

And when he is restor'd, thou, fairest dame,

Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame

To see ye thus, — not very, very sad?

Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad

O feel as if it were a common day;

Free-voic'd as one who never was away.

No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall

Be gods of your own rest imperial.

Not even I, for one whole month, will pry

Into the hours that have pass'd us by,

Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.

O Hermes! on this very night will be

For the soothsayers old saw yesternight

Good visions in the air, — whence will befal,

As say these sages, health perpetual

To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,

In Dian's face they read the gentle lore

Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.

Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.

Many upon thy death have ditties made;

And many, even now, their foreheads shade

With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.

New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,

And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows.

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse

This wayward brother to his rightful joys!

His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise

His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray,

To lure — Endymion! dear brother, say

What ails thee? " He could bear no more, and so

Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,

And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said

"I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!

My only visitor! not ignorant though,

'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be

But there are higher ones I may not see,

If impiously an earthly realm I take.

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake

Night after night, and day by day, until

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.

Let it content thee, sister, seeing me

More happy than betides mortality.

A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave,

Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave

Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;

For to thy tongue will I all health confide.

And, for my sake, let this young maid abide

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,

Peona, mayst return to me. I own

This may sound strangely but when, dearest girl,

Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair!

Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share

This sister's love with me? " Like one resign'd

And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind

In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown

Of jubilee to Dian — truth I heard?

Well then, I see there is no little bird,

Tender soever, but is Jove's own care.

Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,

Behold I find it! so exalted too!

So after my own heart! I knew, I knew

There was a place untenanted in it

In that same void white Chastity shall sit,

And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.

With sanest lips I vow me to the number

Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady,

With thy good help, this very night shall see

My future days to her fane consecrate."

As feels a dreamer what doth most create

His own particular fright, so these three felt

Or like one who, in after ages, knelt

To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine

After a little sleep or when in mine

Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends

Who know him not. Each diligently bends

Towards common thoughts and things for very fear;

Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,

That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow

Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last

Endymion said " Are not our fates all cast?

Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair!

Adieu! " Whereat those maidens, with wild stare,

Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot

His eyes went after them, until they got

Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw,

In one swift moment, would what then he saw

Engulph for ever. " Stay! " he cried, " ah, stay!

Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say

Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again.

It is a thing I dote on so I'd fain,

Peona, ye should hand in hand repair

Into those holy groves, that silent are

Behind great Dian's temple. I'll be yon,

At Vesper's earliest twinkle — they are gone —

But once, once, once again — " At this he press'd

His hands against his face, and then did rest

His head upon a mossy hillock green,

And so remain'd as he a corpse had been

All the long day; save when he scantly lifted

His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted

Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary,

Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose,

And, slowly as that very river flows,

Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament

"Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent

Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall

Before the serene father of them all

Bows down his summer head below the west.

Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest,

But at the setting I must bid adieu

To her for the last time. Night will strew

On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves,

And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves

To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.

Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord

Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,

Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses;

My kingdom's at its death, and just it is

That I should die with it so in all this

We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe,

What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe

I am but rightly serv'd. " So saying, he

Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,

As though they jests had been nor had he done

His laugh at nature's holy countenance,

Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance,

And then his tongue with sober seemlihed

Gave utterance as he entered " Ha! I said,

"King of the butterflies; but by this gloom,

And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom,

This dusk religion, pomp of solitude,

And the Promethean clay by thief endued,

By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head

Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed

Myself to things of light from infancy;

And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die,

Is sure enough to make a mortal man

Grow impious. " So he inwardly began

On things for which no wording can be found;

Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd

Beyond the reach of music for the choir

Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar

Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull

The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,

He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,

Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight

By chilly finger'd spring. " Unhappy wight!

Endymion! " said Peona, " we are here!

What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?"

Then he embrac'd her, and his lady's hand

Press'd, saying " Sister, I would have command,

If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate."

At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate

And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love,

To Endymion's amaze " By Cupid's dove,

And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth

Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!"

And as she spake, into her face there came

Light, as reflected from a silver flame

Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display

Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day

Dawn'd blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld

Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld

Her lucid bow, continuing thus; " Drear, drear

Has our delaying been; but foolish fear

Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;

And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state

Be spiritualiz'd. Peona, we shall range

These forests, and to thee they safe shall be

As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee

To meet us many a time. " Next Cynthia bright

Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night

Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown

Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.

She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,

Before three swiftest kisses he had told,

They vanish'd far away! — Peona went

In a drear-nighted December,

Too happy, happy tree,

Thy branches ne'er remember

Their green felicity

The north cannot undo them,

With a sleety whistle through them;

Nor frozen thawings glue them

From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,

Too happy, happy brook,

Thy bubblings ne'er remember

Apollo's summer look;

But with a sweet forgetting,

They stay their crystal fretting,

Never, never petting

About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many

A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any

Writh'd not at passed joy?

To know the change and feel it,

When there is none to heal it,

Nor numbed sense to steel it,

Was never said in rhyme.

Apol. Which of the fairest three

Apol. Today will ride with me?

Apol. My steeds are all pawing on the thresholds of morn

Apol. Which of the fairest three

Apol. Today will ride with me

Apol. Across the gold autumn's whole kingdoms of corn?

Grac. I will, I — I — I —

Grac. O young apollo let me fly along with thee,

Grac. I will — I, I, I,

Grac. The many many wonders see

Grac. I — I — I — I —

Grac. And thy lyre shall never have a slackened string;

Grac. I, I, I, I,

Grac. Thro' the whole golden day will sing.

Cat! who hast past thy grand climacteric,

How many mice and rats hast in thy days

Destroy'd? — how many tit bits stolen? Gaze

With those bright languid segments green and prick

Those velvet ears — but pr'ythee do not stick

Thy latent talons in me — and upraise

Thy gentle mew — and tell me all thy frays

Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.

Nay look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists —

Thy tail's tip is nicked off — and though the fists

Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,

Still is that fur as soft as when the lists

In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall.

Chief of organic numbers!

Old scholar of the spheres!

Thy spirit never slumbers,

But rolls about our ears,

For ever, and for ever!

O what a mad endeavour

Worketh he,

Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse

Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse

And melody.

How heavenward thou soundest,

Live temple of sweet noise,

And discord unconfoundest,

Giving delight new joys,

And pleasure nobler pinions!

O, where are thy dominions?

Lend thine ear

To a young Delian oath, — aye, by thy soul,

By all that from thy mortal lips did roll,

And by the kernal of thine earthly love,

Beauty, in things on earth, and things above

When every childish fashion

Has vanish'd from my rhyme,

Will I, grey-gone in passion,

Leave to an after-time

Hymning and harmony

Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life;

But vain is now the burning and the strife,

Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife

With old philosophy,

And mad with glimpses of futurity!

For many years my offerings must be hush'd;

When I do speak, I'll think upon this hour,

Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd,

Even at the simplest vassal of thy power, —

A lock of thy bright hair, —

Sudden it came,

And I was startled, when I caught thy name

Coupled so unaware;

Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood.

I thought I had beheld it from the Flood.

O golden tongued Romance, with serene lute!

Fair plumed syren, queen of far-away!

Leave melodizing on this wintry day,

Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute

Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay

Must I burn through; once more humbly assay

The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit

Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,

Begetters of our deep eternal theme!

When through the old oak forest I am gone,

Let me not wander in a barren dream,

But, when I am consumed in the fire

Give me new phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love! — then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

O blush not so! O blush not so!

Or I shall think ye knowing;

And if you smile the blushing while,

Then maidenheads are going.

There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,

And a blush for having done it

There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught,

And a blush for just begun it.

O say not so! O say not so!

For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;

By these loosen'd hips you have tasted the pips

And fought in an amorous nipping.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,

For it only will last our youth out,

And we have the prime of our kissing time,

We have not one sweet tooth out.

There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,

And a sigh for I can't bear it!

O cut the sweet apple and share it!

Hence burgundy, claret, and port,

Away with old hock and madeira,

Too earthly ye are for my sport;

There's a beverage brighter and clearer.

Instead of a pitiful rummer,

My wine overbrims a whole summer;

My bowl is the sky,

And I drink at my eye,

Till I feel in the brain

A Delphian pain —

Then follow, my Caius! then follow

On the green of the hill

We will drink our fill

Of golden sunshine,

Till our brains intertwine

With the glory and grace of Apollo!

God of the meridian,

And of the east and west,

To thee my soul is flown,

And my body is earthward press'd.

It is an awful mission,

A terrible division;

And leaves a gulph austere

To be fill'd with worldly fear.

Aye, when the soul is fled

To high above our head,

Affrighted do we gaze

After its airy maze,

As doth a mother wild,

When her young infant child

Is in an eagle's claws —

And is not this the cause

Of madness? — God of Song,

Thou bearest me along

Through sights I scarce can bear

O let me, let me share

With the hot lyre and thee,

The staid philosophy.

Temper my lonely hours,

And let me see thy bowers

More unalarm'd!

No! those days are gone away,

And their hours are old and gray,

And their minutes buried all

Under the down-trodden pall

Of the leaves of many years

Many times have winter's shears,

Frozen north, and chilling east,

Sounded tempests to the feast

Of the forest's whispering fleeces,

Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,

And the twanging bow no more;

Silent is the ivory shrill

Past the heath and up the hill;

There is no mid-forest laugh,

To some wight, amaz'd to hear

Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June

You may go, with sun or moon,

Or the seven stars to light you,

Or the polar ray to right you;

But you never may behold

Little John, or Robin bold;

Never one, of all the clan,

Thrumming on an empty can

Some old hunting ditty, while

He doth his green way beguile

To fair hostess Merriment,

Down beside the pasture Trent;

For he left the merry tale

Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;

Gone, the song of Gamelyn;

Gone, the tough-belted outlaw

Idling in the " grene shawe;"

All are gone away and past!

And if Robin should be cast

Sudden from his turfed grave,

And if Marian should have

Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze

He would swear, for all his oaks,

Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,

Have rotted on the briny seas;

She would weep that her wild bees

Sang not to her — strange! that honey

Can't be got without hard money!

So it is yet let us sing,

Honour to the old bow-string!

Honour to the bugle-horn!

Honour to the woods unshorn!

Honour to the Lincoln green!

Honour to the archer keen!

Honour to tight little John,

And the horse he rode upon!

Honour to bold Robin Hood,

Sleeping in the underwood!

Honour to maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood-clan!

Though their days have hurried by

Let us two a burden try.

Souls of poets dead and gone,

What elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine

Than mine host's Canary wine?

Or are fruits of Paradise

Sweeter than those dainty pies

Of venison? o generous food!

Drest as though bold Robin Hood

Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day

Mine host's sign-board flew away,

Nobody knew whither, till

An astrologer's old quill

To a sheepskin gave the story,

Said he saw you in your glory,

Underneath a new-old sign

Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack

The Mermaid in the zodiac.

Souls of poets dead and gone,

What elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,

Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather;

Come to-day, and come to-morrow,

I do love you both together!

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;

And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;

Fair and foul I love together.

Meadows sweet where flames burn under,

And a giggle at a wonder;

Visage sage at pantomime;

Funeral, and steeple-chime;

Infant playing with a skull;

Morning fair, and stormwreck'd hull;

Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;

Serpents in red roses hissing;

Cleopatra regal-dress'd

With the aspic at her breast;

Dancing music, music sad,

Both together, sane and mad;

Muses bright and Muses pale;

Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; —

Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;

Oh the sweetness of the pain!

Muses bright, and Muses pale,

Bare your faces of the veil;

Let me see; and let me write

Of the day, and of the night —

Both together — let me slake

All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!

Let my bower be of yew,

Interwreath'd with myrtles new;

Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,

And my couch a low grass tomb

Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;

Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand;

Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,

And yet I never look on midnight sky,

But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light;

I cannot look upon the rose's dye,

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight;

I cannot look on any budding flower,

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,

And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour

Its sweets in the wrong sense — Thou dost eclipse

Every delight with sweet remembering,

And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.

Son of the old moon-mountains African!

Stream of the pyramid and crocodile!

We call thee fruitful, and, that very while,

A desert fills our seeing's inward span;

Nurse of swart nations since the world began,

Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile

Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,

Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan?

O may dark fancies err! they surely do;

'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste

Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew

Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste

The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too,

And to the sea as happily dost haste.

Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,

A forester deep in thy midmost trees,

Did last eve ask my promise to refine

Some English that might strive thine ear to please.

But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quell

Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.

It is impossible to escape from toil

O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting

The flower must drink the nature of the soil

Before it can put forth its blossoming

Be with me in the summer days and I

Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.

Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, — the domain

The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, —

The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun.

Blue! 'Tis the life of waters — Ocean

And all its vassal streams pools numberless

May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can

Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.

Blue! gentle cousin of the forest-green,

Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, —

Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that queen

Of secrecy, the violet What strange powers

Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,

When in an eye thou art alive with fate!

O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind,

Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,

And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,

To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.

O thou, whose only book has been the light

Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on

Night after night when Phoebus was away,

To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.

O fret not after knowledge — I have none,

And yet my song comes native with the warmth.

O fret not after knowledge — I have none,

And yet the evening listens. He who saddens

At thought of idleness cannot be idle,

And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.

O! were I one of the Olympian twelve,

Their godships should pass this into a law, —

That when a man doth set himself in toil

After some beauty veiled far away,

Each step he took should make his lady's hand

More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;

And for each briar-berry he might eat,

A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,

And pulp and ripen richer every hour,

To melt away upon the traveller's lips.

The sun, with his great eye,

Sees not so much as I;

And the moon, all silver-proud,

Might as well be in a cloud.

And O the spring — the spring!

I lead the life of a king!

Couch'd in the teeming grass,

I spy each pretty lass.

I look where no one dares,

And I stare where no one stares,

And when the night is nigh,

Lambs bleat my lullaby.

When wedding fiddles are a-playing,

Huzza for folly O!

And when maidens go a-maying,

Huzza for folly O!

When a milk-pail is upset,

Huzza for folly O!

And the clothes left in the wet,

Huzza for folly O!

When the barrel's set abroach,

Huzza for folly O!

When kate eyebrow keeps a coach,

Huzza for folly O!

When the pig is over-toasted,

Huzza for folly O!

And the cheese is over-roasted,

Huzza for folly O!

When sir snap is with his lawyer,

Huzza for folly O!

And miss chip has kiss'd the sawyer;

Huzza for folly O!

Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!

Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's,

Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl;

Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,

Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns;

There may not be one dimple on her hand;

And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse,

In haste to teach the little thing to walk,

May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs,

And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.

The stranger lighted from his steed,

And ere he spake a word,

He seiz'd my lady's lily hand,

And kiss'd it all unheard.

The stranger walk'd into the hall,

And ere he spake a word,

And kiss'd my lady's cherry lips,

And kiss'd 'em all unheard.

The stranger walk'd into the bower, —

But my lady first did go, —

Aye hand in hand into the bower,

Where my lord's roses blow.

My lady's maid had a silken scarf,

And a golden ring had she,

Again on his fair palfrey.

Asleep! o sleep a little while, white pearl!

And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,

And let me call heaven's blessing on thine eyes,

And let me breathe into the happy air,

That doth enfold and touch thee all about,

Vows of my slavery, my giving up,

My sudden adoration, my great love!

Four seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man

He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span

He has his summer, when luxuriously

Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh

His nearest unto heaven quiet coves

His soul has in its autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness — to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

For there's Bishop's Teign

And King's Teign

And Coomb at the clear Teign head —

Where close by the stream

You may have your cream

All spread upon barley bread.

There's Arch Brook

And there's Larch Brook

Both turning many a mill

And cooling the drouth

Of the salmon's mouth

And fattening his silver gill.

There is Wild Wood,

A mild hood

To the sheep on the lea o' the down,

Where the golden furze,

With its green, thin spurs,

Doth catch at the maiden's gown.

There is Newton Marsh

With its spear grass harsh —

A pleasant summer level

Where the maidens sweet

Of the Market Street

Do meet in the dusk to revel.

There's the barton rich

With dyke and ditch

And hedge for the thrush to live in

For the buzzing bee

And a bank for the wasp to hive in.

And O, and O

The daisies blow

And the primroses are waken'd,

And the violet white

Sits in silver plight,

And the green bud's as long as the spike end.

Then who would go

Into dark Soho,

And chatter with dack'd-hair'd critics,

When he can stay

For the new-mown hay,

And startle the dappled prickets?

Where be ye going, you Devon maid?

And what have ye there in the basket?

Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy,

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

I love your meads, and I love your flowers,

And I love your junkets mainly,

But 'hind the door I love kissing more,

O look not so disdainly.

I love your hills, and I love your dales,

And I love your flocks a-bleating —

But O, on the heather to lie together,

With both our hearts a-beating!

I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,

Your shawl I hang up on the willow,

And we will sigh in the daisy's eye

And kiss on a grass-green pillow.

Over the hill and over the dale,

And over the bourn to Dawlish —

Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale

And gingerbread nuts are smallish.

Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill

And kick'd up her petticoats fairly

Says I I'll be Jack if you will be Gill.

So she sat on the grass debonnairly.

Here's somebody coming, here's somebody coming

Says I 'tis the wind at a parley

So without any fuss any hawing and humming

She lay on the grass debonnairly.

Here's somebody here and here's somebody there!

Say's I hold your tongue you young gipsey.

So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair

And dead as a venus tipsy.

O who would'nt hie to Dawlish fair

O who would'nt stop in a meadow

And make the wild fern for a bed do.

Dear Reynolds, as last night I lay in bed,

There came before my eyes that wonted thread

Of shapes, and shadows and remembrances,

That every other minute vex and please

Things all disjointed come from north and south,

Two witch's eyes above a cherub's mouth,

Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon,

And Alexander with his night-cap on —

Old Socrates a tying his cravat;

And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat;

And Junius Brutus pretty well so, so,

Making the best of's way towards Soho.

Few are there who escape these visitings —

Perhaps one or two, whose lives have patent wings;

And through whose curtains peeps no hellish nose,

No wild boar tushes, and no mermaid's toes

But flowers bursting out with lusty pride;

And young Aeolian harps personified,

Some, Titian colours touch'd into real life. —

The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife

Gleams in the sun, the milk-white heifer lows,

The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows

A white sail shews above the green-head cliff

Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff.

The mariners join hymn with those on land. —

You know the Enchanted Castle it doth stand

Upon a rock on the border of a lake

Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake

From some old magic like Urganda's sword.

O Phoebus that I had thy sacred word

To shew this castle in fair dreaming wise

Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies.

You know it well enough, where it doth seem

A mossy place, a Merlin's hall, a dream.

You know the clear lake, and the little isles,

The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills —

All which elsewhere are but half animate

Here do they look alive to love and hate;

To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound

Part of the building was a chosen see

Built by a banish'd santon of Chaldee

The other part two thousand years from him

Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim;

Then there's a little wing, far from the sun,

Built by a Lapland witch turn'd maudlin nun —

And many other juts of aged stone

Founded with many a mason-devil's groan.

The doors all look as if they oped themselves,

The windows as if latch'd by fays and elves —

And from them comes a silver flash of light

As from the westward of a summer's night;

Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes

Gone mad through olden songs and poesies —

See what is coming from the distance dim!

A golden galley all in silken trim!

Three rows of oars are lightening moment-whiles

Into the verdurous bosoms of those isles.

Towards the shade under the castle wall

It comes in silence — now tis hidden all.

The clarion sounds; and from a postern grate

An echo of sweet music doth create

A fear in the poor herdsman who doth bring

His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring

He tells of the sweet music and the spot

To all his friends, and they believe him not.

O that our dreamings all of sleep or wake

Would all their colours from the sunset take

From something of material sublime,

Rather than shadow our own soul's daytime

In the dark void of night. For in the world

We jostle — but my flag is not unfurl'd

On the admiral staff — and to philosophize

I dare not yet! — Oh never will the prize,

High reason, and the lore of good and ill

Be my award. Things cannot to the will

Be settled, but they tease us out of thought.

Or is it that imagination brought

Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined, —

Lost in a sort of purgatory blind,

Cannot refer to any standard law

Of either earth or heaven? — It is a flaw

In happiness to see beyond our bourn —

It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

Dear Reynolds, I have a mysterious tale

And cannot speak it. The first page I read

Upon a lampit rock of green sea weed

Among the breakers — 'Twas a quiet eve;

The rocks were silent — the wide sea did weave

An untumultuous fringe of silver foam

Along the flat brown sand. I was at home,

And should have been most happy — but I saw

Too far into the sea; where every maw

The greater on the less feeds evermore —

But I saw too distinct into the core

Of an eternal fierce destruction,

And so from happiness I far was gone.

Still am I sick of it and though to-day

I've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay

Of periwinkle and wild strawberry,

Still do I that most fierce destruction see,

The shark at savage prey — the hawk at pounce,

The gentle robin, like a pard or ounce,

Ravening a worm — Away ye horrid moods,

Moods of one's mind! you know I hate them well,

You know I'd sooner be a clapping bell

To some Kamschatkan missionary church,

Than with these horrid moods be left in lurch —

Do you get health — and Tom the same — I'll dance,

And from detested moods in new romance

Take refuge — Of bad lines a centaine dose

Is sure enough — and so " here follows prose " . —

O that a week could be an age, and we

Felt parting and warm meeting every week,

Then one poor year a thousand years would be,

The flush of welcome ever on the cheek

So could we live long life in little space,

So time itself would be annihilate,

So a day's journey in oblivious haze

To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.

O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!

To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!

In little time a host of joys to bind,

And keep our souls in one eternal pant!

This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!

They could not in the self-same mansion dwell

Without some stir of heart, some malady;

They could not sit at meals but feel how well

It soothed each to be the other by;

They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep

But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,

With every eve deeper and tenderer still;

He might not in house, field, or garden stir,

But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

And his continual voice was pleasanter

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,

Before the door had given her to his eyes;

And from her chamber-window he would catch

Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;

And constant as her vespers would he watch,

Because her face was turn'd to the same skies;

And with sick longing all the night outwear,

To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

A whole long month of May in this sad plight

Made their cheeks paler by the break of June

"To-morrow will I bow to my delight,

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon. " —

"O may I never see another night,

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune. " —

So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,

Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek

Fell sick within the rose's just domain,

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek

By every lull to cool her infant's pain

"How ill she is, " said he, " I may not speak,

And yet I will, and tell my love all plain

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,

And at the least 'twill startle off her cares."

His heart beat awfully against his side;

And to his heart he inwardly did pray

For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide

Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve away —

Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride,

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

So once more he had wak'd and anguished

A dreary night of love and misery,

If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed

To every symbol on his forehead high;

She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly,

"Lorenzo! " — here she ceas'd her timid quest,

But in her tone and look he read the rest.

"O Isabella, I can half perceive

That I may speak my grief into thine ear;

If thou didst ever any thing believe,

Believe how I love thee, believe how near

My soul is to its doom I would not grieve

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear

Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live

Another night, and not my passion shrive.

Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,

Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time."

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,

And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress.

Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air,

Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart

Only to meet again more close, and share

The inward fragrance of each other's heart.

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair

Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart;

He with light steps went up a western hill,

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill.

All close they met again, before the dusk

Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,

Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.

Ah! better had it been for ever so,

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

Were they unhappy then? — it cannot be —

Too many tears for lovers have been shed,

Too many sighs give we to them in fee,

Too much of pity after they are dead,

Too many doleful stories do we see,

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse

Over the pathless waves towards him bows.

But, for the general award of love,

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;

Though Dido silent is in under-grove,

And Isabella's was a great distress,

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove

Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,

Enriched from ancestral merchandize,

And for them many a weary hand did swelt

In torched mines and noisy factories,

And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt

In blood from stinging whip; — with hollow eyes

Many all day in dazzling river stood,

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,

And went all naked to the hungry shark;

For them his ears gush'd blood; for them in death

The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark

Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe

A thousand men in troubles wide and dark

Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel,

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts

Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears? —

Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts

Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? —

Why were they proud? Because red-lin'd accounts

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,

Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired

In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,

Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies

The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired

And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — .

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, —

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.

How was it these same ledger-men could spy

Fair Isabella in her downy nest?

How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye

A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest

Into their vision covetous and sly!

How could these money-bags see east and west? —

Yet so they did — and every dealer fair

Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,

And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,

And of thy roses amorous of the moon,

And of thy lilies, that do paler grow

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune,

For venturing syllables that ill beseem

The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale

Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;

There is no other crime, no mad assail

To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet

But it is done — succeed the verse or fail —

To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;

To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,

An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.

These brethren having found by many signs

What love Lorenzo for their sister had,

And how she lov'd him too, each unconfines

His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad

That he, the servant of their trade designs,

Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad,

When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees

To some high noble and his olive-trees.

And many times they bit their lips alone,

Before they fix'd upon a surest way

To make the youngster for his crime atone;

And at the last, these men of cruel clay

Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;

For they resolved in some forest dim

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant

Into the sun-rise, o'er the balustrade

Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent

Their footing through the dews; and to him said,

"You seem there in the quiet of content,

Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade

Calm speculation; but if you are wise,

Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.

Today we purpose, ay, this hour we mount

To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count

His dewy rosary on the eglantine."

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,

Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine;

And went in haste, to get in readiness,

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress.

And as he to the court-yard pass'd along,

Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft

If he could hear his lady's matin-song,

Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;

And as he thus over his passion hung,

He heard a laugh full musical aloft;

When, looking up, he saw her features bright

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.

"Love, Isabel! " said he, " I was in pain

Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow

Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain

I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow

Of a poor three hours' absence? but we'll gain

Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.

Good bye! I'll soon be back. " — " Good bye! " said she —

And as he went she chanted merrily.

So the two brothers and their murder'd man

Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream

Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan

The brothers' faces in the ford did seem,

Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the water

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,

There in that forest did his great love cease;

Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,

It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace

As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin

They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,

Each richer by his being a murderer.

They told their sister how, with sudden speed,

Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands,

Because of some great urgency and need

In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.

Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow's weed,

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands;

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,

And the next day will be a day of sorrow.

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;

Sorely she wept until the night came on,

And then, instead of love, O misery!

She brooded o'er the luxury alone

His image in the dusk she seem'd to see,

And to the silence made a gentle moan,

Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,

And on her couch low murmuring " Where? O where?"

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long

Its fiery vigil in her single breast;

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung

Upon the time with feverish unrest —

Not long — for soon into her heart a throng

Of higher occupants, a richer zest,

Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,

And sorrow for her love in travels rude.

In the mid days of autumn, on their eves,

The breath of Winter comes from far away,

And the sick west continually bereaves

Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay

Of death among the bushes and the leaves

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel

By gradual decay from beauty fell,

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes

She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale,

Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes

Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes

Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale;

And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud,

To see their sister in her snowy shroud.

And she had died in drowsy ignorance,

But for a thing more deadly dark than all;

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,

Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall

For some few gasping moments; like a lance,

Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom,

The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot

Lorenzo stood, and wept the forest tomb

Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom

Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears

Had made a miry channel for his tears.

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;

For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,

To speak as when on earth it was awake,

And Isabella on its music hung

Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,

As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung;

And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song,

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright

With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof

From the poor girl by magic of their light,

The while it did unthread the horrid woof

Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite

Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell,

Saying moreover, " Isabel, my sweet!

"Red whortle-berries droop above my head,

And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed

Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat

Comes from beyond the river to my bed

Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,

And it shall comfort me within the tomb.

I am a shadow now, alas! alas!

Upon the skirts of Human-nature dwelling

Alone I chant alone the holy mass,

While little sounds of life are round me knelling,

And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,

And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,

Paining me through those sounds grow strange to me,

And thou art distant in humanity.

I know what was, I feel full well what is,

And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had

A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss

To be my spouse thy paleness makes me glad;

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel

A greater love through all my essence steal."

The Spirit mourn'd " Adieu! " — dissolv'd, and left

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,

Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil

It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache,

And in the dawn she started up awake;

"Ha! ha! " said she, " I knew not this hard life,

I thought the worst was simple misery;

I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife

Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die;

But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife!

Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy

I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,

And greet thee morn and even in the skies."

How she might secret to the forest hie;

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,

And sing to it one latest lullaby;

How her short absence might be unsurmised,

While she the inmost of the dream would try.

Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse,

And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

See, as they creep along the river side,

How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,

And, after looking round the champaign wide,

Shows her a knife. — " What feverous hectic flame

"Burns in thee, child? — What good can thee betide,

That thou should'st smile again? " — The evening came,

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed;

The flint was there, the berries at his head.

Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,

And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,

To see scull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole;

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,

And filling it once more with human soul?

Ah! this is holiday to what was felt

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.

She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though

One glance did fully all its secrets tell;

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know

Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;

Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow,

Like to a native lily of the dell

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began

To dig more fervently than misers can.

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon

Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies,

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone,

And put it in her bosom, where it dries

And freezes utterly unto the bone

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries

Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care,

But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

That old nurse stood beside her wondering,

Until her heart felt pity to the core

At sight of such a dismal labouring,

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing

Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore;

At last they felt the kernel of the grave,

And Isabella did not stamp and rave.

Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?

O for the gentleness of old Romance,

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song!

Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong

To speak — O turn thee to the very tale,

And taste the music of that vision pale.

With duller steel than the Persean sword

They cut away no formless monster's head,

But one, whose gentleness did well accord

With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord

If Love impersonate was ever dead,

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd.

'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned.

In anxious secrecy they took it home,

And then the prize was all for Isabel

She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb,

And all around each eye's sepulchral cell

Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam

With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,

She drench'd away — and still she comb'd, and kept

Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept.

Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews

Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby,

And divine liquids come with odorous ooze

Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, —

She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose

A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,

And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set

Sweet basil, which her tears kept ever wet.

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,

And she forgot the blue above the trees,

And she forgot the dells where waters run,

And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;

She had no knowledge when the day was done,

Hung over her sweet basil evermore,

And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.

And so she ever fed it with thin tears,

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers

Of basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew

Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,

From the fast mouldering head there shut from view

So that the jewel, safely casketed,

Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.

O Melancholy, linger here awhile!

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!

O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh!

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,

And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,

Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,

And touch the strings into a mystery;

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;

For simple Isabel is soon to be

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.

O leave the palm to wither by itself;

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! —

It may not be — those Baalites of pelf,

Her brethren, noted the continual shower

From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,

Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower

Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside

By one mark'd out to be a noble's bride.

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much

Why she sat drooping by the basil green,

And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch;

Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean

They could not surely give belief, that such

A very nothing would have power to wean

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,

And even remembrance of her love's delay.

This hidden whim; and long they watch'd in vain;

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,

And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again;

And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there

Beside her basil, weeping through her hair.

Yet they contriv'd to steal the basil-pot,

And to examine it in secret place

The thing was vile with green and livid spot,

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face

The guerdon of their murder they had got,

And so left Florence in a moment's space,

Never to turn again. — Away they went,

With blood upon their heads, to banishment.

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!

O Echo, Echo, on some other day,

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — o sigh!

Spirits of grief, sing not you " Well-a-way!"

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;

Will die a death too lone and incomplete,

Now they have ta'en away her basil sweet.

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things,

Asking for her lost basil amorously;

And with melodious chuckle in the strings

Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry

After the pilgrim in his wanderings,

To ask him where her basil was; and why

Twas hid from her " For cruel 'tis, " said she,

"To steal my basil-pot away from me."

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,

Imploring for her basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn

In pity of her love, so overcast.

And a sad ditty of this story born

From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd

Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty,

"To steal my basil-pot away from me!"

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!

May I sing to thee

As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?

In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles

Seek, as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,

By bards who died content in pleasant sward,

Leaving great verse unto a little clan?

Save of the quiet primrose, and the span

Of heaven, and few ears

Rounded by thee, my song should die away,

Content as theirs,

Rich in the simple worship of a day.

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,

Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,

As one who sits ashore and longs perchance

To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.

So thou wast blind! — but then the veil was rent,

For Jove uncurtain'd heaven to let thee live,

And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,

And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;

Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light,

And precipices show untrodden green;

There is a budding morrow in midnight;

There is a triple sight in blindness keen;

Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel

To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

Give me your patience sister while I frame

Exact in capitals your golden name

Or sue the fair Apollo and he will

Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill

Great love in me for thee and Poesy.

Imagine not that greatest mastery

And kingdom over all the realms of verse

Nears more to heaven in aught than when we nurse

And surety give to love and brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood;

Ulysses stormed, and his enchanted belt

Glowed with the muse, but they are never felt

Unbosom'd so and so eternal made,

Such tender incense in their laurel shade,

To all the regent sisters of the Nine

As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;

Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where.

And may it taste to you like good old wine,

Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,

And sweet is the voice in its greeting,

When adieux have grown old and goodbyes

Fade away where old time is retreating.

Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,

And earnest a kiss on the brow,

When we meet over sea and o'er land

Where furrows are new to the plough.

The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,

The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,

Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream,

I dreamed long ago, now new begun.

The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won

From winter's ague, for one hour's gleam;

Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam

All is cold beauty; pain is never done

For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,

The real of beauty, free from that dead hue

Sickly imagination and sick pride

Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due

I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide

Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

Old Meg she was a gipsey,

And liv'd upon the moors;

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,

And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,

Her currants, pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,

Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills,

Her sisters larchen trees;

Alone with her great family

She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,

No dinner many a noon,

And, 'stead of supper, she would stare

Full hard against the moon.

But every morn, of woodbine fresh

She made her garlanding,

And, every night, the dark glen yew

She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers, old and brown,

She plaited mats o' rushes,

She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen

And tall as Amazon;

An old red blanket cloak she wore,

A chip hat had she on.

God rest her aged bones somewhere!

She died full long agone!

There was a naughty boy,

A naughty boy was he,

He would not stop at home,

He could not quiet be —

He took

In his knapsack

A book

Full of vowels

And a shirt

With some towels —

A slight cap

For night cap —

A hair brush,

Comb ditto,

New stockings

Fold old ones

Would split O!

This knapsack

Tight at's back

He rivetted close

And followed his nose

To the north,

To the north,

And follow'd his nose

To the north.

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

For nothing would he do

But scribble poetry —

He took

An ink stand

In his hand

And a pen

Big as ten

In the other.

And away

In a pother

He ran

To the mountains

And fountains

And ghostes

And postes

And witches

And ditches

And wrote

In his coat

When the weather

Was cool,

Fear of gout,

And without

When the weather

Was warm —

Och the charm

When we choose

To follow one's nose

To the north,

To the north,

To follow one's nose to the north!

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

He kept little fishes

In washing tubs three

In spite

Of the might

Of the maid

Nor affraid

Of his granny-good —

He often would

Hurly burly

Get up early

And go

By hook or crook

To the brook

And bring home

Miller's thumb,

Tittlebat

Not over fat,

Minnows small

As the stall

Of a glove,

Not above

The size

Of a nice

Little baby's

Little finger —

O he made

'Twas his trade

Of fish a pretty kettle

Of fish a pretty kettle

A kettle!

There was a naughty boy,

And a naughty boy was he,

He ran away to Scotland

The people for to see —

There he found

That the ground

Was as hard,

That a yard

Was as long,

That a song

Was as merry,

That a cherry

Was as red —

That lead

Was as weighty,

That fourscore

Was as eighty,

That a door

Was as wooden

As in England —

So he stood in

His shoes and he wonder'd,

He wonder'd,

He stood in his

Shoes and he wonder'd.

Ah! ken ye what I met the day

Out oure the mountains

A coming down by craggies grey

An mossie fountains —

Ah goud hair'd Marie yeve I pray

Ane minute's guessing —

For that I met upon the way

Is past expressing.

As I stood where a rocky brig

A torrent crosses

I spied upon a misty rig

A troup o' horses —

And as they trotted down the glen

I sped to meet them

To see if I might know the men

To stop and greet them.

First Willie on his sleek mare came

At canting gallop

His long hair rustled like a flame

On board a shallop.

Then came his brother Rab and then

Young Peggy's mither

And Peggy too — adown the glen

They went togither —

I saw her wrappit in her hood

Fra wind and raining —

Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood

Twixt growth and waning —

She turn'd her dazed head full oft

For there her brithers

Came riding with her bridegroom soft

And mony ithers.

Young Tam came up an' eyed me quick

With reddened cheek —

Braw Tam was daffed like a chick —

He coud na speak —

Ah Marie they are all gane hame

Through blustering weather

An every heart is full on flame

An light as feather.

Ah! Marie they are all gone hame

Fra happy wedding,

Whilst I — Ah is it not a shame?

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams!

When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?

When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid?

How long is't since the mighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,

Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid?

Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep;

Thy life is but two dead eternities —

The last in air, the former in the deep;

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies —

Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,

Another cannot wake thy giant size.

This mortal body of a thousand days

Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,

Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,

Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!

My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree,

My head is light with pledging a great soul,

My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,

Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;

Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,

Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find

The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, —

Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, —

Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, —

O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

All gentle folk who owe a grudge

To any living thing

Open your ears and stay your trudge

Whilst I in dudgeon sing.

The gadfly he hath stung me sore —

O may he ne'er sting you!

But we have many a horrid bore

He may sting black and blue.

Has any here an old grey mare

With three legs all her store,

O put it to her buttocks bare

And straight she'll run on four.

Has any here a lawyer suit

Of 17,43 —

Take lawyer's nose and put it to't

Is there a man in Parliament

Dumb founder'd in his speech,

O let his neighbour make a rent

And put one in his breech.

O Lowther how much better thou

Hadst figur'd t' other day

When to the folks thou mad'st a bow

And hadst no more to say.

If lucky gadfly had but ta'en

His seat upon thine a — e

And put thee to a little pain

To save thee from a worse.

Better than Southey it had been,

Better than Mr. D — ,

Better than Wordsworth too, I ween,

Better than Mr. V — .

Forgive me pray good people all

For deviating so —

In spirit sure I had a call —

And now I on will go.

Has any here a daughter fair

Too fond of reading novels,

Too apt to fall in love with care

And charming Mister Lovels?

O put a gadfly to that thing

She keeps so white and pert —

I mean the finger for the ring,

And it will breed a wort.

Has any here a pious spouse

Who seven times a day

Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse

And have her holy way?

O let a gadfly's little sting

Persuade her sacred tongue

That noises are a common thing

But that her bell has rung.

And as this is the summum bo-o

Num of all conquering,

I leave withouten wordes mo

The gadfly's little sting.

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd

Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,

From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent

That gods might know my own particular taste.

First the soft bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste,

The Stranger next with head on bosom bent

Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous bag-pipe went,

Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.

O bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away —

O Stranger thou my nerves from pipe didst charm —

O bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway —

Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart,

Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part.

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,

Where patriot battle has been fought, when glory had the gain;

There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,

Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green;

There is a joy in every spot made known by times of old,

New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;

There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,

More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,

When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,

Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,

Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born

One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn

Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;

Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the sun may hear his lay;

Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,

But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;

Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks;

Blue tides may sluice and drench their time inaves and weedy creeks;

Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air;

Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair;

But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,

As palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found

At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain;

Forgotten is the worldly heart — alone, it beats in vain. —

Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day

To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay,

He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth

Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of care,

Beyond the sweet and bitter world, — beyond it unaware!

Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay

Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way

O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face,

Of brother's eyes, of sister's brow — constant to every place;

Filling the air, as on we move, with portraiture intense;

More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense,

When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,

Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions manifold.

No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length

Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength —

One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,

But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial —

He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down

Upon rough marble diadem — that hill's eternal crown.

Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer

That man may never lose his mind on mountains black and bare;

That he may stray league after league some great birthplace to find

And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.

Not Aladdin magian

Ever such a work began;

Not the Wizard of the Dee

Ever such a dream could see;

Not St. John, in Patmos' isle,

In the passion of his toil,

When he saw the churches seven,

Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven,

Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder.

As I stood its roofing under,

Lo! I saw one sleeping there,

On the marble cold and bare.

While the surges wash'd his feet,