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», Gornell University Libtacy
Sthara, Nem York

 

LIBRARY OF

LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE

A.B.,A.M., COLUMBIAN COLLEGE,'71,'73.
WASHINGTON, D.C.

 

THE GIFT OF
‘MRS. MARY A. WYNNE
“AND
JOHN H. WYNNE
CORNELL ‘98

1922
hii
THE “CHANDOS CLASSICS.”

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

JOHN KEATS.

REPRINTED FROM THE EARLY EDITIONS,

With PAemoir, Explanatory Notes, &.

 

LONDON :
FREDERICK WARNE AND CoO,

BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
 
PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE.

THE present Edition of Keats’ Poems is a complete
reprint of all his Poems out of Copyright to the present
time, and contains considerably more than any other

Non-copyright Edition yet published.

BEDFORD STREET,
STRAND.
CONTENTS.

EARLY POEMS.

PAGE

DEDICATION. To Leigh Hunt, Esq. . . ......, aE

_ I stood Tiptoe upona Little Hil . . 2... .. 2... 2
Specimen of an Inductiontoa Poem ........ - 9
sCalidore aoe ae oe i II
16

To some Ladies .
On receiving a Curious Shell, ‘and ¢ a Copy of ‘Verses, fiom the

 

Same Ladies nia 4). eee es eS es A a BZ

ME ooh a Tak Soc. Oe ce Meet oon Sas as ht ree eat edo chet ace Thue tt CES

To Hope 20

Imitation of Spenser 3 UO Sr eh Qa

_Woman ! when I behold Thee Fippant, Vain Bites ap Aledo cig 23
EPISTLES.

“To George Felton Mathew. . . . . . 5. 5 as pee 35
Tomy Brother George . . . . 1. 1 1 es 1 ew we es 28
yo Charles Cowden Clarke. . . . 1. 1. 1 6 8 8 © © es 32
SONNETS.

Tomy Brother George . . . . . . «+ pe eee . 37
To *#*¥**#*#* ° Sonwatclh a atte S37
Written on the Day that Mr. Lech Hunt left ‘Brion ie giv. 738
How many Bards gild the Lapses of Time!. . .. . 39
Toa Friend who sent me some Roses ..,.... 39

To!G, A, We «4 4 @ @ 2 #8 8 aS 49
viil CONTENTS.

PAGE |

O Solitude! if 1 must with Thee Dwell . . . . . «. » . - 40)
Tomy Brothers .. 2b we AT
Keen, fitful Gusts are Whispering Here and "There oh ease OBE
To One who has been Long in City Pent . ......- .- 42
On First looking into Chapman’s Homer... .... - 42
On Leaving some Friends atan Early Hour . .... .- + 43
Addressed to Haydon . . 2. wwe ee ee ee 43
Addressed tothéSame. . . bo ee Ge Boke a Rm He A
On the Grasshopper and Cricket be Gh he ere ae rods. Se AR
To Kosciusko .. . i Be oath 4 te cattle dee, vee es. AS
_Happyis England! . . 2... 1 eee ee ee es 46
On the Elgin Marbles . . 2 2. 1 7 1 ee eee ee 46
Inclosing the Preceding Sonnet. . . 47

A Dream, after reading Dante’s Episode of Paulo and Francesca 47

 

 

“Sleep and Poetry «we ee ae Ge a OG ae GB
PSAGYMION ye si shai se ah: che Ge a OR ee Ge, ee, a SOT
Lamia . : Se GRO St Ae Rep ry wae eka? 12!
Isabella ; or, the Pot of Basil . att ey Bee te ta Ae em, weg, FOF
The Eve of St. cia Berson we ae a te eae Ga ae se ge geo’ BBB
Hyperion . a a Wn Boo at a ee a ee ew er ae, 1236

POEMS.

“Ode to a N ightiigale 2 4 2 es ee ee Re we we & 263
OdeonaGrecianUrm..........2..2.. . 266
Odet6 Psyche. «2 2 6 we ee He Ee ew ee ew 27
Fancy. 2 8 eB 4 Ba ok we we mR HR ws 2 a we 269
Ode... BG eee GE eu yn ap Gan Gites. 3B
Lines on the Mermaid avert Sceriee Siecies: “eat Ae a ta is oat a, FOR
Robin Hood* .'. 2... ee ee as “ORS
To AUtuOM, 520 i ewe an te ee eG we ey ge OZ
Ode on Melancholy . 2. 2 2 1. 1 we we ee we 278

La Belle Dame Sans Mercy . ©. 2. ee ee ee ee 279
PREFATORY MEMOIR.

“Wuom the Gods love die young,” was the belief of antiquity ;
and such seems to have been, in truth, the case when John Keats,
the gifted and beloved, passed away in the dawn of his life, after
singing a few brief songs—the promise of a glorious hereafter,
destined never to be fulfilled. The tenderest interest hovers
over the memory of this young poet. Next to Chatterton’s his
name has become a spell to move the warmest pity and sympathy
in English hearts, for his short life was not a happy one, and he
died without knowing that he had won the laurel of immortality.

John Keats was born October 29th, 1795. His father had
married the daughter of Mr. Jennings, a large stable owner on
the Pavement, Moorfields, in whose employment he had originally
lived. His mother was lively and very intelligent. Her son
John had a strong affection for her; and we are told in Lord
Houghton’s delightful “Life and Letters of Keats,” that once
when she was ill, and the doctor had ordered that she should not
be disturbed, the little boy of four years old kept watch outside
her bedroom door for more than three hours, armed with an old
sword, which he had somewhere picked up.

While still a very little fellow he was sent to school with his
brothers George and Thomas to Mr. Clarke, of Enfield, the father
of the Shakspearian Charles Cowden Clarke. This school was
deservedly in high repute ; and here Keats displayed remarkable
x PREFATORY MEMOIR.

ability, though not of a plodding kind ; on the contrary, he was an,
active, spirited little fellow, desirous of rivalling hereafter the feats
of a naval relative of his, who had served with Duncan at Camper-
down. He learned rapidly, but was not industrious till a desire
seized him to win the first prizes of the school, when he suddenly
devoted himself to study with an ardour which threatened to
injure his health. If he walked it was with a book ; and play he
entirely abjured. His resolute perseverance was crowned with
success. He won the prizes, and probably also, at the same
time, gained the love and habit of study.

During the latter part of his residence under Mr. Clarke’s care
he read and translated a great deal of Virgil; but he never
learned Greek, and knew Homer only in the words of Chapman. |
The future poet, _whose lines breathed the very spirit_of the old}
iclassic myths, had gained his Knowledge of them from ‘Tooke aad
Lempriére,__

Keats lost both parents while still in his early boyhood ; thus
his whole life seems to have been chequered by sorrows. His
mother died of consumption when he was about fifteen, and he is
said to have felt the loss deeply and bitterly. He left school
soon after, and was apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton, a
man of some eminence, named Hammond.

His father had left eight thousand pounds, to be equally
divided between his four children ; the elder of whom, after the
were left orphans, was taken into the office of Mr. Abbey, their
guardian, a London merchant. The distance between Edmonton
and Enfield permitted Keats, after he was apprenticed, to con-
tinue his intimacy with the Clarkes, in whose cultivated society
his genius grew and developed. It was to them also that he was
indebted for the loan of books. One day his friend Charles lent
him, at his request, Spenser’s “Fairy Queen ;” and that wonderful
poem had on him the same effect it had produced on Cowley two
PREFATORY MEMOIR. x1

centuries before ; it awoke the dormant spirit of poetry, and
his first production was an imitation of Spenser. His first pub-
lished poem was, however, an “Epistle” addressed to his friend
Mr. Felton Mathew, to whom he had been indebted for an
introduction into some pleasant society.

At the termination of his apprenticeship he went to London, to
walk the hospitals. Here he lived in the Poultry, and was intro-
duced by Mr. Clarke to some of the literary celebrities of the
day—to Leigh Hunt, Shelley, Haydon, Goodwin, and Mr.
Ollier, the publisher and poet.

About this time Leigh Hunt was released from a two years’
imprisonment, which he had undergone as the punishment of a
libel on the Prince Regent, whom he had described in his paper,
the Examiner, as an “ Adonis of Fifty.” The extreme severity
with which this personality was puriished roused much indignation
amongst literary men. The period was one in which rival poli-
ticians used furious invective against each other; and though
Hunt cannot be acquitted of bad taste—setting loyalty entirely
aside—he did but act after the ill fashion of his time. Keats
was full of generous indignation on his behalf, and on his release
from prison addressed to him a sonnet of eager sympathy. He
also dedicated to him the first volume of his poems, which Mr.
Ollier published entirely on account of the admiration he felt for
them. Leigh Hunt was, in fact, the great encourager_and insti-
gator of Keats_in_hi ical 1 sand it is said that we owe
“Endymion” and the ‘Revolt of Islam” to a friendly rivalry
between Shelley and the young poet.

Lord Houghton relates, as an instance of the facility of Keats
in composition, that “he was engaged with a lively circle of
friends when the last proof-sheet” [of his Poems] ‘was brought
in, and he was requested by the printér to send the Dedication
directly, if he intended to have one. He went to a side table,
xii PREFATORY MEMOIR.

and: while all around were noisily conversing, he sat down and
wrote the sonnet, beginning—

* Glory and loveliness have passed away.”

This volume of poems, which appeared in 1817, fell unnoticed
from the press, and Keats, ascribing his ill success to want of
energy in his publisher, rather ungratefully, we think, quarrelled
with Mr. Ollier.

Soon after, he sent two sonnets to the Hxaminer, on first seeing
the Elgin Marbles.

Meantime he studied at least fairly well for his profession, as
he passed his medical examination successfully. But when he
engaged in the practice of medicine, the poet found that he could
never be an efficient surgeon. He therefore conscientiously gave
up his profession ; thus ruining his prospects in a worldly sense,
and throwing himself into a state of poverty, and of dependence
on the precarious resources of literature, which Scott so aptly
described as “a good stick, but a bad crutch.”

His health also was delicate, and by the counsel of Haydon he
went to recruit it, and to study uninterruptedly in the Isle of
Wight. How he must have luxuriated in the beauty of the lovely
little island after living in the Poultry! One understands at
once how the line, which has become proverbial, “A thing of
beauty is a joy for ever,” almost necessarily opened “ Endymion,”
which he began at this time. It does seem as if a poem, so
redolent of nature, must have been written amidst its sweetest
sights and sounds ; and beautiful as the Isle of Wight still is, it
was much more so in 1817, when its lovely shades and rocks
were less the haunt of sea-side visitors. Towards the close of
writing this poem, Keats also beheld the sterner beauties of
Scotland, in which he made a tour. Very great anxieties delayed
the completion of the poem. His brother Tom was seriously ill:
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xii

George had left his employment with the Abbeys, and the poet
himself was weak and suffering. But he was cheered by the
kindness and liberality of his publishers, Messrs. Taylor and
Hessey, who had consented to bring out his poem, and were
warm and practical friends. ‘‘ Endymion” was finished at Bur-
ford Bridge, in the autumn of 1817, and published in the spring
of 1818. In Coleridge’s “Table Talk,” p. 184, we meet this
remarkable account of Keats :— Ay Sina ea a :

“A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr. and
myself in a lane near Highgate. knew him, and spoke.
It was Keats. He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or
so. After he had left us a little way, he came back, and said,
‘Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having pressed
your hand.’

“¢ There is death in that hand,’ I said to , when Keats
was gone. Yet this was, I believe, before the consumption
showed itself distinctly.”

“Endymion” was very severely reviewed by Gifford in the
Quarterly, and there spread a rumour after the young poet’s
death, that the unfairness and harshness of the article had induced
the illness of which Keats died. This was a delusion; but there
can be no doubt that so sensitive a man must have been much
hurt by it. The review in Blackwood was disgraceful to that
magazine. He was desired in it “to go back to-his gallipots !”
and told that it was a wiser and better thing to be a starved
apothecary than a starved poet! In our day, such a view of
poetry and such vulgar insolence are almost incredible.

Byron and Shelley both believed in the fatal effect of the
Quarterly Review on Keats. But Lord Houghton tells us that
they were mistaken. In his full and interesting Memoir of the poet
he gives us a letter of Keats, in which is this remarkable passage :—
“ Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose

 

 

 
xiv PREFATORY MEMOIR.

love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his
own works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain with"
out comparison beyond what Blackwood or the Quarterly could
possibly inflict; and also when I feel I am right, no external
praise can give me such a glow as my own solitary perception
and ratification of what is fine.” A man who could write thus,
would scarcely be killed by a review. Itinjured only the public,
who were_thus deprived of the remainder of “Hyperion.” (See
advertisement to first edition, p. 237 of this volume.)

In this year, Keats had the sorrow of watching by the dying
bed of his brother Tom ; and nearly at the same time he met the
lady who was his first and last love. She was an East Indian,
the cousin of some friend of his—a woman of great personal
attractions and talent.

His brother George, who had married and emigrated to
America, returned to England for a short visit, and received his
share (near 1000/.) of what poor Tom left. John, the poet,
received only 2007. His education had been expensive, and he
had made very little by his poems, consequently he could have
no hope of marrying yet; and his pain and disappointment at
the result of his literary efforts (however bravely he bore it)
must have been great. His vain and passionate love, and the
loss of his favourite brother, also preyed on his strength.

One evening, on returning to his house late outside a stage-
coach, he caught a severe chill, and was persuaded to go to bed.
He had hardly lain down before he coughed slightly, and said,
“There is blood in my mouth; bring me the candle ; let me see
this blood.” He gazed at it, and then said, very calmly, “I know
the colour of that blood—it is arterial blood—I cannot be deceived
‘in that colour. That drop is my death-warrant. I must die.”*

 

* “Life and Letters of Keats,” by Lord Houghton, p. 289.
PREFATORY MEMOIR. XV

From this first attack, however, he recovered, and grew com-
paratively well and cheerful. He then went to reside in the
family of the lady he loved, and here he began seriously to think
of making provision for his future life; the most feasible prospect
being that of becoming surgeon on board an East Indiaman.

In 1820 appeared “ Lamia,” “Isabella,” “Eve of St. Agnes, .
and other poems. It was praised, but sold slowly.

Of these poems, and of “Endymion,” Lord Jeffrey, in the
Edinburgh Review of August, 1820, says :—

“We had never happened to see either of these volumes till]
very lately, and have been exceedingly struck with the genius they
display and the spirit of poetry which breathes through all their
extravagance. * * * * They are flushed all over with the rich
lights of fancy, and are so coloured and bestrewn with the flowers
of poetry, that even while perplexed and bewildered in their laby-
rinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness
or to shut our hearts to the enchantments they so lavishly pre-
sent.”

All readers of Keats will allow that this criticism was fair and
impartial.

Change of climate was now declared to be the only chance re-
maining of saving the life of the gifted young poet. He had a
faithful and: sympathizing friend—Mr. Severn, the artist. This
gentleman resolved to sacrifice his prospects at the dawn of his
popularity in order to accompany and take care of the invalid.

On their arrival at Rome, after a boisterous voyage and a short
stay at Naples, Dr. Clark (Sir James Clark), to whom Keats had
a letter of introduction, procured him a lodging in the Piazza di
Spagna, opposite his own house, and did everything that skill,
ability, and generous sympathy could do to alleviate his sufferings
and cheer his mind. ‘But nothing could avail to save him. He
knew he was dying, and once said, “I feel the daisies growing
xvi PREFATORY MEMOIR.

over me.” Just before his death he received a letter from the
woman he loved, which he could not bear to read. It was placed
by his desire in his coffin. He directed that the inscription on
his grave should be—

“‘ HERE LIES ONE WHOSE FAME WAS WRIT IN WATER.”

A mournful line, revealing how bitterly his longing for fame had
been disappointed.

Keats had a beautiful face: his eyes were large, blue, and ex-
pressive ; his hair auburn.

His death, which occurred February 24th, 1821, caused much
excitement in the literary world. on, who had at first dis-

dained the young poet as of “Cockney school,” wrote feel-

ingly now of him, and declared that “his fragment of ‘ Hyperion’
seems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as
4Eschylus.”

Shelley wrote in his honour his beautiful “ Adonais,” prefixing
to it the following indignant protest against the wrongs done to
his dead friend’s genius :—

“John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-
fourth year, on the 27th of December, 1821,* and was buried in
the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city,
under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy
walls and towers now mouldering and desolate, which formed the
circuit of ancient Rome.

“The cemetery is an open space among the ruins covered in
winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with
death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

“The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have
dedicated these unworthy verses, was not more delicate and
fragile than it was beautiful, and where canker-worms abound,

 

* An error of the Poet both as to age and date.
“to rising genius or indigent merit, than the publisher of Mr. Keats’

PREFATORY MEMOIR, xvii

what wonder if its young flower was blighted in its bud? The
savage criticism on his ‘Endymion,’ which appeared in the
Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effects on his sus-
ceptible mind ; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture
of a bloodvessel in the lungs ; a rapid consumption ensued, and
the succeeding acknowledgments from more candid critics of the
true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound

‘thus wantonly inflicted.

“Tt may be well said, that these wretched men know not what
they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without
heed as to whether the poisoned shafts light on a heart made
callous by many blows, or one hke Keats’, composed of more
penetrable stuff.

* * * * * *

“Miserable man! you one of the meanest, have wantonly
defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God.
Nor shall it be your excuse that, murderer as you are, you have
spoken daggers, but used none.

“The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats’ life
were not made known to me until the elegy was ready for the
press. I am given to understand that the wound which his
sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of ‘ Endymion,’
was exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits ; the
poor fellow seems to have been hastened from the stage of life,
no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius*
than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care.
He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness,
by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who I have

* We do not know,” says the editor of the Literary Chronicle, **to whom
Mr. Shelley alludes; but we believe we may say that the City of London

does not boast a bookseller more honourable in his dealings, or more liberal
poems,

b
xviii PREFATORVY MEMOIR.

been informed almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every
prospect to unwearied attendance upon his friend. Had I known
these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should
have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the
more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the re-
collection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a
reward from ‘such stuff as dreams are made of.’ His noble
conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career.
May the unextinguished spirit of his illustrious friend animate the
creations of his pencil, and plead against oblivion for his name !”

The poem contains the following exquisite lines, which are the
best consolation for the mind pained by this sad record :—

He is made one with Nature ; there is heard
His voice in all her music—from the moan

Of thunder to the voice of night’s sweet bird ;
He is a presence to be felt and known

In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where’er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn that being to its own;
Which wields the world with never wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely.

* * * * *

Go thou to Rome, at once the paradise,

The grave, the city, and the wilderness ;

And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,
And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dréss
The bones of Desolation’s nakedness :
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xix

Pass till the Spirit of the spot shall lead

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access,

Where like an infant’s smile over the dead,

A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.

It is the grave of Keats, and there a brief time afterwards
rested the heart of the poet, who had wept over the sad end of
this “inheritor of unfulfilled renown.”

Since his death, the poetry of Keats has received its due
appreciation, and has yearly risen in the estimation of readers
who regret that such a poet was not spared to attain maturity of
life and genius, for he died at the early age of twenty-six, leaving,
nevertheless, to his country and his native language a legacy of
poetic wealth which proved that he had not lived in vain, but
had won a niche in the temple of immortality.
 

 

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

JOHN KEATS.

Garly Poems.

 

DEDICATION.
To LeicH Hunt, Esq.

*‘ What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty ?”
SPENSER—Fate of the Butterfly.

Gory 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 voiced 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 ih 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.)
POEMS.

 

‘Places of nestling green for Poets made.”—Story of Rimini.

I stoop tiptoe 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 scanty 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
get the blue fields of heaven, and then there-crept

little noiseless noise among the leaves, Te

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 ;

For 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 awhile, 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 posy

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 !
EARLY POEMS,

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 bluebells : 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 ;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,

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 tiptoe 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 awhile 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 ringdoves’ cooings.
EARLY POEMS.

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 chequered 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
Tempered 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 emerald 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 1 in such a place, I sure should pray
That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
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.
EARLY POEMS.

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 divers 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’erhead we see the jasmine and sweetbriar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ;
6 EARLY POEMS.

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:

So that we feel uplifted trom the world,

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and siti,
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 touched ; what amorous and fondling nips
They gave each other’s cheeks ; with all their sighs,
And how they kissed each other’s tremulous eyes :
The silver lamp—the ravishment—the wonder—
The darkness—the 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 pulled 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
Naught 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 ?

 

* Syrinx, a river nymph, who, flying from Pan, was turned into a reed,
Fletcher alludes to this nymph :— : :

“Pan, for her dear sake,
Who loves the rivers’ brinks, and still doth shake
In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit,
Let me be made a reed, and ever mute,
Nod to the water’s fall, whilst every blast
Sings through my slender leaves that I was chaste.”
EARLY POEMS.

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 ;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale

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 wondrous region he had gone,

To search for thee, divine Endymion !*

 

* Pale Pheebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies ;
How she conveyed him, softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppies, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,
To kiss her sweetest.” —-FLETCHER— Cynthia, or the Moon.
EARLY POEMS,

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

~ Who stood on Latmos’ 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,

And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick ; it cooled their fevered 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 :
EARLY POEMS,

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 gazed

With hands held back, and motionless, amazed

To see the brightness in each other's eyes ;

And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loosed 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 followed thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses :
Was there a Poet born ?—but now no more—

My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.

—_—_—_—-

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.

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 ;
0 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:
To

EARLY POEMS,

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 its 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 honours of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring

Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ?

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 butts of wine are drank off to the lees? .
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

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 knight so proudly by ?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ?

Spenser! thy brows are archéd, open, kind,

And come like a clear sunrise to my mind;

And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
When I think on thy noble countenance:
EARLY POEMS, II

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
Traced by thy loved 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.

————

CALIDORE
A FRAGMENT.

Younc Calidore is paddling o’er the lake;

Fs healthful spirit eager and awake

To feel the beauty of a silent eve,

Which seemed full loth 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 overwound,

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean

So elegantly o’er the waters’ brim

And show their blossoms trim.

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow
The freaks and dartings of the black-winged swallow,
12

EARLY POEMS,

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-lilies :

Broad leaved are they and their white canopies

‘Are upward turned 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 looked 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, shattered, 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 windows spreads his feathers light,
And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.
Green tufted islands casting their soft shades
Across the lake ; sequestered leafy glades,
EARLY POEMS. z

we

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
4 little brook. The youth had long been viewing
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 ankles spanned !
ty

EARLY POEMS.

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 pearled 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,

Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,

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,
Thanked heaven that his joy was never ending ;
While ‘gainst his forehead he devoutly pressed

A hand heaven made to succour the distressed ;
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 wingéd cap of Mercury.

His armour was so dexterously wrought

In shape, that sure no living man had thought
EARLY POEMS, ra

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-famed, 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-roofed hall were pendent,
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated ;
The sweet-lipped 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 doffed 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 looked half staringly ;

And then their features started into smiles
Sweet as blue heavens o’er enchanted isles.
16

EARLY POEMS.

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 SOME LADIES.

Wuat though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend ;

Ncr listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend :

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream Tushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;

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 keepsake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver, descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven ;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ;
EARLY POEMS. 17

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 span of the hour of leisure,
In elegant, pure, and aérial minds.

—

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL, AND A COPY
OF VERSES, FROM THE SAME LADIES.

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ?
Bright as the humming-bird’s green diadem,
When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain ?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold ?
And splendidly marked 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 famed Britomartis ?:

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,
Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?
Ts 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 crowned ;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!

I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless and to soothe, :
18

EARLY POEMS.

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 tranmels 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.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crowned ;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless and to soothe.

—

TO ###*

Hapst thou lived in days of old,
O what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes, that dance
EARLY POEMS, 19

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.
Downward too flows many a tress
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 honeyed voice ; the neatness
Of thine ankle lightly turned :

With those beauties, scarce discerned,
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-lilies, 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.
EARLY POEMS.

Hadst thou lived when chivalry
Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been F
Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broidered, floating vest
Covering 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 lily’s blooms
Springing from a costly vase.

See with what a stately pace

Comes thine alabaster stéed ;

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.

——>—_.

TO HOPE.

WueEn by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my “ mind’s eye” flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ;
EARLY POEMS, ar

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 moonbeams 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:
Chase 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 our 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!
EARLY POEMS.

Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,
Great Liberty ! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppressed,
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
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ;
Brightening the half veiled 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.

February, 1815.
—p
IMITATION OF SPENSER.

* * * *

Now Morning from her orient chamber came,

And her first footsteps touched 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 distil,

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 kingfisher 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 oared 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,
EARLY POEMS, 23

Ah! could J tell the wonders of an isle
That in that fairest lake had placéd been,
I could e’en Dido of her grief beguile ;
Or rob from agéd Lear his bitter teen :
For sure so fair a place was never seen,
Of all that ever charmed romantic eye:
It seemed an emerald in the silver sheen
Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the ccerulean sky.

And all around it dipped luxuriously

Slopings of verdure through the glossy 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.

* * * *

—_—_——_—.

Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ;
Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again :

E’en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
E’en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I’ve dormant lain :

But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces ;—to be thy defender
I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—

A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore !
24

EARLY POEMS.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixed eyes forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens ! I cannot dare
To turn my admiration, though unpossessed
They be of what is worthy—though not drest

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.

Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ;
These lures I straight forget—e’en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

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

 

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.

“* Among the rest a shepheard (though but young
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.”
BrowNE—SBritannia’s Pastorals.
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 joyed,
Who with combinéd powers, their wit employed
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 flushed Aurora in the roseate dawning !
26

EPISTLES.

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 curvéd 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, sequestered, wild, romantic,
That often must have seen a poet frantic ;

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing ;
And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ;
Where the dark-leaved 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 ;
EPISTLES, 27

And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him
Four laurelled spirits, heaven-ward to entreat 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 sunshine in a shady place :”

For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled,
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 ;

And, as for him some gift she was devising,
Beheld thee, plucked 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 changed thee ; how thou next didst seem
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream ;
And when thou first didst in that mirrow trace
The placid features of a human face :

That thou hast never told thy travels strange,
And all the wonders of, eae mazy range
EPISTLES.

O’er pebbly crystal, and o’er golden sands ;
Kissing thy daily food from Naiad’s vearly hands.

November, 1815.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

FUuLu many a dreary hour have I past,

My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercast

With heaviness ; in seasons when I’ve thought
No sphery 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 outstretched 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, nought they see
In water, earth, “or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told 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,
EPISTLES, 29

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 nought 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 brimmed 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 revealed 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?
30

EPISTLES.,

Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night :

And should I ever see them, I will tell you

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 formed a snowy circle on the grass,

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass

Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crownéd 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 :
EPISTLES. 3t

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

One that I fostered 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 lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.

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,
T feel delighted, still, that you should read them

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught,

F’en now I’m pillowed on a bed of flowers

That crowns a lofty cliff, 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 streaked with purple, and green.
32

EPISTLES,

Now ’tis I see a canvassed ship, and now

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

T see the lark down-dropping to his nest,

And the broad winged seagull 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!

August, 1816.

—-——_

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.*

Ort have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning ;
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 shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent,

I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ;

 

* Celebrated for his Shakspearian studies and for his excellent edition (in
conjunction with Mary Cowden Clarke) of the plays.
EPISTLES, 33

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 penned a line to thee:
Because my thoughts were never free and’cleai,
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 Baiz’s shore reclined 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 Belphcebe 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 sequestered 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 wronged Libertas—who has told you stories
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories ;

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.

 

* See Spenser’s ‘‘ Fairy Queen.”
34

EPISTLES.

‘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 swelled 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 ?

Showed 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,
TI shall roll on the grass with twofold 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 passed since last I saw the spires
In lucent Thames reflected :—warm desires

‘To see the sun o’erpeep the eastern dimness,

And morning shadows streaking into slimness
EPISTLES. 35

Across the lawny fields and pebbly water ;

To mark the time as they grow bread, 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 stepped into these pleasures
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures :
The air that floated by me seemed 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 a 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 passed since last my heart
Was warmed luxuriously by divine Mozart ;

By Arne delighted, or by Handel maddened ;

Or by the song of Erin pierced and saddened :
What time you were before the music sitting,

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.

Since I have walked with you through shady lanes
That freshly terminate in open plains,

And revelled in a chat that ceaséd not

When at nightfall 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

Midway between our homes :—your accents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
36

EPISTLES.

Could hear your footsteps touch the grav’ly floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ;

You changed the footpath for the grassy plain.

In those still moments I have wished you joys

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.

September, 1816.

 
Sonnets.

I.
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Many the wonders I this day have seen :
The sun, when first he kist away the tears
That filled the eyes of morn ; the laurelled 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-discovered revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ?

——

II.

TO *** * *

Hap 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 enterprise :
38 SONNETS.

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 honeyed roses
When steeped 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.

III.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT
LEFT PRISON.*

Wuart though, for showing truth to flattered 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 naught 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 ?

 

* Leigh Hunt, born 1784, was editor of the Jndicator, and author of
“Rimini” and other poems. He died 1859. He had been imprisoned on a
charge of libel against the Prince Regent, whom he had called in his paper,
the Zxaminer, ‘‘an Adonis of fifty.”
SONNETS. 39

IV.

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 intrnde:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion ; ’tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered 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.

 

Vv.

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES.

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark 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 excelled :
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled :
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled,
40

SONNETS.

VIL
TO G. A. W.

Nympu 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.

 

VII.

O Sourruve ! 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 deli,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
’Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove 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 refined,
Is my soul’s pleasure ; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
SONNETS. AI

VIII.
TO MY BROTHERS,

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 fixed, as in poetic sleep,

Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birthday, 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

November 18, 1816.

 

IX.

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.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

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 brimful of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found ;

Of fair-haired Milton’s eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid drowned ;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned.
42

SONNETS.

X.

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 hearts 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
Natching 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.

 

XI.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER,

Mucu have I travelled 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-browed 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 stared at the Pacific—and all his men

Looked at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
SONNETS. 43

XII.
ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR.

GIVE me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-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.

XIII.
ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.*

HIGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man’s fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
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.

 

* B. R. Haydon, the celebrated historical painter, porn 1786, died 1846.
44

SONNETS.

How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly !

What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country’s eye.

——~

XIV.
ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

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 steadfastness 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 P——
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

————

XV.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

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 ;
SONNETS, 45

That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights ; for when tired out with fun
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.
December 30, 1816.

 

XVE.
TO KOSCIUSKO.*

Goop Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ;
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 name of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
And 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.

 

* The illustrious Polish patriot and general. He was bom 1750, and
headed the Poles in their efforts to free themselves from Russia in 1794. After
heroic efforts and «a temporary success, (having defended Warsaw for two
months against the united forces of Prussia and Russia ;) he was wounded
and taken prisoner. At the end of two years’ imprisonment he was released
by the Emperor Paul, who offered him his sword ; but Kosciusko refused it,
saying, ‘‘He had no need of a sword since he had no longer a country.”
Kosciusko died in exile in Switzerland, 1817.
46

SONNETS,

XVII.

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

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
And float with them about the summer waters.

XVIII.
ON THE ELGIN MARBLES.

My spirit is too weak ; mortality

Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,

And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.

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 indescribable 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.
SONNETS, 47

XIX.
INCLOSING THE PRECEDING SONNET.
Haypvon ! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitively of 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 upfollowed thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,
Were I of ample strength for such a freak.
Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine ;
Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture’s hem?
For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o’erwise phlegm,
Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them !

 

xx,
A DREAM,
AFTER READING DANTE’S EPISODE OF PAULO AND FRANCESCA,

As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept ;
So on a Delphic reed my idle sprite
So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft
‘The dragon world of all its hundred eyes ;
And seeing it asleep, so fled away—
Not unto Ida, with its snow-cold skies ;
Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day—
But to that second circle of sad hell,
Where, ’mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flow
Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell
Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw ;
Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form
I floated with about that melancholy storm.

1819.
Sleep and Poetry.

 

** As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight
[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n’ad sicknesse nor disese.”—CHAUCER.

Wuat 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 P

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! ‘3
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 sunrise.

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 ?

i
SLEEP AND POETRY. 49

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

It has a glory, and naught else can share it :

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
Chasing away all worldliness and folly ;

Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
Or the low rumblings earth’s regions under ;
And sometimes like a gentle whispering

Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing

That breathes about us in the vacant air ;

So that we look around with prying stare,
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aérial limning,’
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 ye ious denizen

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

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
4
5°

SLEEP AND POETRY.

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow

The morning sunbeams 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

Round my fireside, and haply there discover
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 tease

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see

Wings to find out an immortality.

Stop and consider! life is but_a day ;

A fragile dewdrop 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 ;
SZEEP AND POETRY. 51

The reading of an ever-changing tale ;

The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil ;

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ;

A laughing schoolboy, 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,
And still will dance with ever varied ease,
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 upcurled

In the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell ?

Ys Limust pass Meir Yor = nobter Die
ere I ma the strife
52

SLEEP AND POETRY.

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 wondrous 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 heaven, and in their stead
A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

’ And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
SLEEP AND POETRY,

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 shown us all?
From the clear space of ether, to the small
Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
Of Jove’s large eyebrow, 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 round a dizzy void ?
Ay, in those days the. Muses were nigh cloyed
With honours ; nor had any other care
Than to sing out and soothe 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

‘Lhey swayed about upon a rocking-horse,
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal souled !
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolled
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 !

53
54 SLEEP AND POETRY.

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

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race !

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
And did not know it,—no, they went about, —
Holding a poor, decrepit standard out,
Marked with most flimsy mottoes, 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

heir 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

 

* A celebrated French poet and satirist. He wrote ‘L’Art poetique,”

Le Lutrin,” &c. neo eau is the analogue of Pope,” says Hallam, “in
French literature. The ‘Art of Poetry’ has been the model of the ‘Essay on
Tone Few poems more resemble each other.” He was born 1636,
led 1711. .
SLEEP AND POETRY, 55

Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
In many places ;—some has been upstirred
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: ha 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,
Riomttieaiys baci clear Goth the themes
Are ugly cubs, 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 eyelids 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
Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

Of poesy, that it should be a friend

To soothe 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 choking thorns

From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns,.
56

SLEEP AND POETRY.

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 ;
Naught more ungentle than the placid look
Of one who leans upon a closéd book ;
Naught 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.
D 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 it? How!

If 1 do hide myself, it sure shall be_

In the very fane, the light of Poesy:

Tei do ll af least Iwi beled

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
Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
Of man: though no great minist’ring reason sorts
Out the dark mysteries of human souls

To clear conceiving : yet_there ever rolls
SLEEP AND POETRY. 57

A vast idea me, and I glean
ieee ay ibage nee es
The end and aim of Poesy. ’Tis clear

As anything 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 eyelids 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
Convulsed 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.
Fen 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
58

SLEEP AND POETRY.

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,

When first my senses caught their tender falling.
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, convulsed 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
ae at each other. Happy he who trusts
SLEEP AND POETRY. 59

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 right hand toward
The dazzling sunrise: 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 ;

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims

At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion
With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness 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,

es, 7

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
60

SLEEP AND POETRY.

Of outspread wings, and from between them shone
The face of Poesy: from off her throne

She overlooked things that I scarce could tell.

The very sense of where I was might well

Keep Sleep aloof: butmore 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 Ir 5 and gay,

Resolving to begin that very d:
se lines ; and howsoever they be done,
I leave themas-a father does his son.
ENDYMION:
A POETIC ROMANCE.

‘* The stretched metre of an antique song.”

Inscribed to the Memory

OF

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

KwnowineG within myself the manner in which this Poem has
been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I
- make it public.

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who
must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and ever
error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accom
plished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel
sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the
press ; nor should they if I thought a year’s castigation would do
them any good ; it will not—the foundations are too sandy. It
is just that this youngster should die away ; a sad thought for me,
if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be
plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a
punishment ; but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he
will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer
hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with
the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from
62 ENDYMION.

the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look,
and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honour of English
literature.

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagina-
tion of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of life between, in
which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way
of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds
mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak
of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages.

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful
mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness ; for I wish to try
once more, before I bid it farewell.

Teignmouth, April 10, 1818.

 

BOOK I

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever a
‘Its loveliness increases ; it will neve

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 noble natures, of the gloomy days,

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
ENDYMION. 63

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,
Tke passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound t to us so fast,
“That, whether there be shine or gloom 0 ’ercast,
They : always 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 valleys: 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, ’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 rimmed 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,
64

ENDYMION.

See it half finished :| but let Autumn bold,

With universal tinge of sober gold,

Be all about me when I make an end.

And now at once, adventuresome, I 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 passed unworried
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Whee ted the herds of Pan: ay, great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks; all ae.
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,
Edged 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.
ENDYMION. 65

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 moon: 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 ;
The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ;
Man’s voice was on the mountains ; and the mass
Of nature’s lives and wonders pulsed tenfold,
To feel the sunrise 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 e’en then
Filled 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 valleys,—ere their death, o’ertaking
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

And now, as deep into the wood as we
66

ENDYMION.

Might mark a lynx’s eye, there glimmered light
Fair faces.and a rush of garments white,

Plainer. and _ plainer showing, til-at-Jast

Into the. widest alley they all_passed, _

Making | directly. for the woodland. altar. z

O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue falter
In telling of this goodly company,

Of their old piéty, 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-brimmed
With April’s tender younglings: next; well trimmed,
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’erflowing 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,
A venerable priest full soberly,
Begirt with minist’ring looks : alway his eye
Steadfast 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:
ENDYMION. 67

Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still

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

His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seemed 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 appeared,
Up-followed by a multitude that reared

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,
Showing like Ganymede* to manhood grown ;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain king’s : beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between .
His,nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.

A smile was on his countenance ; he seemed,
To common lookers on, like one who dreamed
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 owlets’ cry,

OF logs piled solemnly. Ah, well-a-day,

Why should our young Endymion pine away!

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed
To sudden veneration : women meek
Beckoned their sons to silence ; while each cheek

 

* The boy-cupbearer of Jupiter.
68

ENDYMION,

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,

Thus spake he: “ Men of Latmos! shepherd bands !
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks :.
Whether descended from beneath the rocks

That overtop your mountains ; whether come
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb ;

Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibbled their fill at ocean’s very marge,

Whose mellow reeds are touched 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
Greened over April’s lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes ; and we have had

Great bounty from Endymion our lord.

The earth is glad: the merry lark has poured

His early song against yon breezy sky,*

That spreads so clear o’er our solemnity.”

 

* «The lark has sung his carol in the sky.”—Rocrrs (1820),
ENDYMION. 69

Thus ending, on the shrine he heaped a spire
Of teeniing sweets, enkindling sacred fre;

on he stained 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
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx*—do thou know,
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

 

* A nymph of Arcadia, the daughter of the river Ladon. Flying from
Pan, she was, at her own request, turned into a reed,
7o

ENDYMION.

Their fairest blossomed 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 fawn and satyr flies
For willing service ; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
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 outpeeping ;
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 huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms :
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
‘That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors :
ENDYMION. aI

Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge—see,
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 pzean,
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,
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten—out of memory :
fair creatures ! whose young children’s children bred
Thermopyle its heroes—not yet dead,

 

* Dryope, a nymph of Arcadia, the mother (Mercury was supposed to be
the father) of Pan.
12 ENDYMION.

But in old marbles ever beautiful.

High genitors, unconscious did they cull
Time’s sweet first-fruits—they danced 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 firmament,
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,

Called up a thousand thoughts to envelope

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. Aroused from this sad mood
By one, who at a distance loud hallooed,

Uplifting his strong bow into the air,

Many might after brighter visions stare :

 

* Hyacinthus, a young Greek prince, greatly favoured by Apollo. Zephyrus
(the west wind) is fabled to have best vaalons : and one dee aha Neolly was
playing quoits with Hyacinthus, he blew the quoit thrown by the god on the

ead of the young mortal, who was killed by the blow. Apollo, greatly grieved,
made a flower spring from the blood of his lost favourite, which is called
Hyacinth, from his name. The flower was said to bear on its leaves the letters
Ai, Ai, the last cry of Hyacinthus. Yearly festivals were instituted by the
Spartans in memory of the nephew of their king.
ENDYMION, 93

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 increased
The silvery setting of their mortal star.

There they discoursed upon the fragile bar
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 minist’ring 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 unguessed offices.

Anon they wandered, 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 blossomed boughs
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wished, ’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 ;
44

ENDYMION.

And, ever after, through those regions be

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 shared their famished scrips. Thus all out-told
Their fond imaginations,—saving him

Whose eyelids curtained 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 swooned 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.
Ay, even as dead-still as a marble man,
Frozen in that old tale Arabian.

Who whispers him so pantingly and close?
Peona, his sweet sister : of all those,
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made,
And breathed 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
ENDYMION. a8

From stumbling over stumps and hillocks smal: ;
Until they came to where these streamlets fali,
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 weighi,—
Peona guiding, through the water straight,
Towards a bowery island opposite ;

Which gaining presently, she steered light

Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,

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,
( her new couch, new made of flower leaves,
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves
When last the sun his autumn tresses shook,
And the tanned 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 bluebells, or a wren light rustling
Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.
76

ENDYMION.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,
That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hushed and smooth! O unconfined
Restraint ! imprisoned liberty ! great key
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves
And moonlight ; ay, to all the mazy world
Of silvery enchantment !—who, upfurled
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,

But renovates and lives ?—Thus, in the bower, _

Endymion was calmed to life again.
Openi élids 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 sleek 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

That, any longer, I will pass my days

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 T’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 entreat

My soul to keep in its resolved course.”
ENDYMION. 17

ffereat 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 ;
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spanned
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw
Endymion’s spirit melt away and thaw

efore 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 thin terious,,
“TmmGTEI-SERyT such alone could thus
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinned in aught _
Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught :
—A-Paphtardove ipon a message sent?

Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent,
Sacred to Dian? MHaply, 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 looked at her, and pressed 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 _hast been unhappy_at the change

Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange ?
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ?
Ambition is no sluggard: ’tis no prize,
78

ENDYMION.

That toiling years would put within my grasp,

That I have sighed 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,
Qut-facing Lucifer, and then had hurled

My spear aloft, as signal for the chase—

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 se ief, 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:
And in that nook, the very pride of June,
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 lighten 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 blossomed suddenly a magic bed

Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red :

At which I wondered greatly, knowin

That but one night_had wrought this flowery spell ; _
ENDYMION. 79

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
Jaime. not by eommon growth... Thay of Dhaught
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

Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light ;
The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,
And then were gulfed in a tumultuous swim :
And then I fellasleep, Ah, can I tell

The enchantment that afterwards befell ?

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 appeared to open for my flight ;

I became loth and fearful to alight

From such high soaring by a downward glance:
So kept me steadfast 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 sighed that I could not pursue,

And dropt my vision to the horizon’s verge ;

And lo! from opening clouds, T saw emerge
The loveliest moon, that ever silyered-o’er

A shell from 7 : she did soar
80

ENDYMION.

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 raised
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 looked, 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 gordianed up and braided,
Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;
The which were blended in, I know not how,
With such a paradise of lips and eyes,
Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,
That, when I think thereon, my spirit 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 veined, 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
ENDYMION, 81

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,

Handfuls of daisies.”——“‘ Endymion, how strange !
Dream within dr “She took an airy range,

And then, towards me, like a very maid,

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,

And pressed me by the hand: Ah! ’twas too much;

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,

Yet held my recollection, even as one

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run

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 lapped and lulled along the dangerous sky.

Soon, as it seemed, we left our journeying high,

And straightway into frightful eddies swooped ;

Such as aye muster where grey time has scooped

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain’s side :

There hollow sounds aroused me, and I sighed

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 seemed

A second self, that each might be redeemed

And plundered of its load of blessedness.

Ah, desperate mortal! I even dared to press

Her very cheek against my crowned lip,

And, at that moment, felt my body dip

Into a warmer air: a moment more,

Our feet were soft ‘in flowers. There was store
6
82

ENDYMION.

Of newest joys upon that Alp. Sometimes

A scent of violets, and blossoming limes,
Loitered around us ; then of honey cells,
Made delicate from all white-flower bells ;
And once, above the edges of our nest,

An arch face peeped,—an Oread as I guessed.

“ Why did I dream that sleep o’er-powered 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
Had chidden herald Hesperus away,
With leaden looks: the solitary breeze
Blustered and slept, and its wild self did tease
With wayward melancholy ; and I thought,
Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought
Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus !
Away I wandered—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
Seemed sooty, and o’erspread with upturned gills
Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown
Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird
Before my heedless footsteps stirred, and stirred
ENDYMION, 83

In little journeys, I beheld in it

A disguised 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,
Rocked me to patience. Now, th g !

These things, with i i i
oO my-down-sunken hours, and with thee,

Secor salen belo foie hesibineses

Of _weary—hfe”

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 encased crocodile, or leaps
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps,
ol eR 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 crushed 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 demigod, 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, zay,
If any said ’twas love: and yet ’twas love ;
What could it be but love? How a ringdove
Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path ;
84

ENDYMION,

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

Pictured 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

Must dreams themselves be; seeing they’re more slight
Than the mere nothing that engenders them !
Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem

Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick ?
Why pierce highfronted honour to the quick
For nothing but a dream ?’—Hereat the youth
Lodked-tpa-confticting 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 seemed to taste a drop of manna-dew,

Full palatable: and a colour grew

Upon his cheek, while thus he liteful spake,
ENDYMION. 85

“Peona! ever have I lo
My thirst for the world’s praises : nothing base,

No merely slumbérous phantasm, could unlace
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared —
Though now ’tis tattered ; leaving my bark bared
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,
_A fellowship with essence ; till we shine,

Full alchemized, 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 unclouded tombs ;
Old ditties sigh above their father’s grave ;
Ghosts of melodious prophesyings 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.

cee renese te moment have we stef=
nto 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
Upon the forehead of humanity.

All its more ponderous and bulky worth

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth
86

ENDYMION,

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 nourished by its proper pith,

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.

Ay, so delicious is the unsating food,

That men, who might have towered 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, T would rather_he.struck-dumb,

Than speak against this ardent listlessness :

For I have ever thought that it might bless

The world with benefits unknowingly ;

As does the nightingale, upperched high,

And cloistered 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 bt

Produce more than our searching- nitieesee >
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,
ENDYMION. 87

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 steadfast aim

A love immortal, an immortal too.

Look not so wildered ; 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 passed in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!

Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,

Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,
Lies a.deep_holew; from whose ragged brows
anes ana 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 mouldered steps lead into this cool cell,

Far as the slabbed margin of a well,

Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye

Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky.

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set

Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet
88

ENDYMION,

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 boyhood: 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 watched, by flew

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver ;

So plainly charactered, 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 sl

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,

. Dewdrops, and dewy buds, and leaves and flowers,

Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,
Bathing my spirit in a new delight.

Ay, 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 scared away by slow returning pleasure.
How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure
ENDYMION. 89

Of weary days, made deeper exquisite,

By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,

Than when I wandered 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.)—
Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen ;
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 shattered infant buds,—

That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,
My hunting cap, because I laughed and smiled,
Chatted with thee, and many days exiled

All torment from my breast ;—twas even then,
Straying about, yet, cooped up in the den

Of helpless discontent,—hurling my lance

From place te-ptace;amd following at chance,

At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,
And, plashing among bedded pebbles, struck

In -—whose silver ramble
Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,
Tracing along, it brough to a cave,

Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave
The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,—
*Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock

Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,

Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread
Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph’s home,
‘Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam ?”

Said I, low voiced: ‘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 :
9a

ENDYMION.

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 stayed
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 lipped, and then these accents came:
‘Endymion ! the cave is secreter

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
Of thy coming hand, the while it travelling cloys
And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.’

At that oppressed I hurried in.—Ah ! where
Are those swift moments ? Whither are they fled ?
T'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed

Sorrow the way to death ; but patiently

Bear up against it: so farewell, 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: ay, thou shalt see,
Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ;

 
ENDYMION, gt

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 ?

By this the sun is setting ; we may chance

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

 
  

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star
‘Khrough autumn mists, and took Peona’s hand :
They stept into the boat, and launched from land.

BOOK IL

O SOVEREIGN power of love! O grief! O balm!

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passéd 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,
Stiffholden 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 !

Many old roiten-timbered boats there be
g2

ENDYMION,

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified

To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride,

And golden keeled, is left unlaunched and dry.
But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly
About the great Athenian admiral’s miast ?
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,—sighing,—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 crushed, in striving to uprear
Love’s standard on the battlements of song.

So once more days and nights aid me along,
Like legioned 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-leaved rill.
ENDYMION. 93

Now he is sitting by a shady spring,

And elbow-deep with feverish 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 charactered strange things,

For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

Lightly this little herald flew aloft,
Followed by glad Endymion’s clasped hands :
Onward it flies. From languor’s sullen bands
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.

It seemed he flew, the way so easy was ;

And like a newborn 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 trilight dreams
~The stimmer 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 poured

Unto the temperate air: then high it soared,
94

ENDYMION,

And, downward, suddenly began to dip,

As if, athirst with so much toil, ’twould sip
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch
‘Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch
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 disturbed his gloomy rest ?

It was a nymph uprisen to the breast

In the fotintain’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 starved on the ruth,
The bitterne : indeed,

Seeing thou art so Beatle. Could I weed
Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer

Allthe b bright hes of ma. cyaial calle
To Amphitrite ; all

Golden, or rainbow- se or pimps,
Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze ;
Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws

A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands,
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands
By my diligent springs ; my level lilies, shells,
My charming rod, my potent river spells ;
Yes, everything, 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_-—~
ENDYMION. 95

I’ve been thy guide ; that thou must wander fa
In other regions, past the scanty bar

‘To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta’en
‘From every wasting sigh, from €véry pain, |

Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above :
But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell!
T 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 poured on, and where its pool
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,
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 kee Tr
Of smothering fancies, fatiently sat down ;
And, while beneath the event TO

Glowworms began to trim their starry lamps,
Thus breathed 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 :
Vet, 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 honeycombs :
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,
96

ENDYMION,

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
Naught 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 tempered light
Into my bosom, that the dreadful might

And tyranny of love be somewhat scared !

Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spared,
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,

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow

Not to have dipped in love’s most gentle stream.
O be propitious, nor severely deem

My madness impious ; for, by all the stars

That tend thy bidding, IT 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—
ENDYMION 97

Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air
Will gulf me—help !”—At this with maddened stare,
And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood ;
Like old Deucalion mountained o’er the flood,
Or blind Orion* hungry fof the morn. :
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne ae
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ;
“Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passioned moan
Had more been heard. Thus swelled it forth : “‘ Descend,
Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend
Into the sparry hollows of the world!
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurled
As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been
A little lower than the chilly sheen
Of icy pinnacles, and dippedst 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 crowned Y

ith immortal = to follow
Where airy voices lead : he hollow.
| The silent mysteries The silent mysteries of a jeana iv
. SSS

arm

 

 

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,

Saw ak) elements ate ST at So nr ERE TE

’Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness ;
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,

 

* The hero Orion was blinded in his sleep by order of GEnopion, king of
Chios, whose daughter he had asked in marriage. On awaking and finding
what had happened to him, he followed a sound which led him to a forge.
Here he placed one of the workmen on his shoulders, and made him guide
him to a spot where the rising sun could bé seen. The first ray that struck
his face restored, as he had anticipated, his eyesight. The eagerness with
which the blind ‘giant must have longed for daylight is heraused as descrip-
tive of Endymion’s passion. .
98

ENDYMION,

The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,

But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ;

A dusky empire and its diadems ;

One faint eternal eventide of geins.

Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,

Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,
With all its lines abrupt and angular :
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,
Through a vast antre ; then the metal woof,

Like Vulcan’s rainbow, with some monstrous roof
Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,

It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss

Fancy into belief: anon it leads

Through winding passages, where sameness breeds
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ;
Whether to silver grots, or giant range

Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge

Athwart a flood of crystal. Ona 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. Chill mb
His b ew, 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, absorbed in it,

He saw not fiercer wonders—past the wit

Of any spirit to tell, but one of those

Who, when: this planet’s sphering time doth close,
Will be its high remembrancers : who they?
‘The mighty ones who have made eternal day
For Greece and England. While astonishment
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went
Into_a marble gallery, passing through —_.

A mimic temple, so complete and true
SS
ENDYMION. 99

In sacred custom, that he well-nigh feared
To search it inwards ; whence far off appeared,
Through a long pillared vista, a fair shrine,
And, just beyond, | _on light tiptoe divine,
“The youth approached ; oft turning his veiled eye
Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old.
And when, more near against the marble cold
, He had touched his forehead, he began to thread
|All courts and passages, where silence dead
Roused by his whispering footsteps murmured faint :
And long he tr. ed 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.
“There, when new wonders ceased to float before,
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 caught
The goal of consciousness? Ah! ’tis the thought
The deadly feel of solitude: forlo!
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild
~ Ty pink and purple chequer, nor, up- -piled,
The cloudy-rack-stow 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
too

ENDYMION.

An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away,
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ?

“No :” exclaimed he ; “ why should I tarry here ?”
No! loudly echoed times innumerable.

At which he straightway started, and ’gan tell
His paces back into the temple’s chief ;
Warming and glowing strong in the bel g strong in the belief

Of help from Dian: so that when again

He caught her airy iry 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 exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name !
Within my breast there lives a choking flame—
O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs !

A homeward fever parches up my tongue—

O let me slake it at the running springs!

Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings—

O let me once more € hear the 2 linnet’s note !

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?
ENDYMION. IOL

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 bowed his face
Desponding, o’er the marble floor’s cold thrill.
But ’twas not long ; for, sweeter than the rill
To its old channel, or a swollen tide
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns
Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide—
Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew
Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew
Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,
Down whose green back the short-lived foam, all hoay,
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, forced him walk tiptoe !
For it came more softly than the east could blow
Azion’s magic to the Atlantic isles ;
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles
102

ENDYMION,

Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre
To seas Ionian and Tyrian.

‘ O did he ever live, that lonely man,

Who loved—and music slew not? ’Tis the pest
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest ;

That things of delicate and tenderest wane
Are swallowed all, and made a seared dearth,
By one equisumine 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,
Vanished 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 damber, myrtle walled, _embowered high,

te noe pie
Full of light, incense,

And more of beautiful and strange b eside :
For on a silken couch of 1 rosy pride,

In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest eauty ; fonder, in fair r sooth,
ENDYMION. 103

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 reposed

On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed,

By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout ; just as the morning south
Disparts a dew-lipped 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 intertwined and trammelled fresh :
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Aithiop berries ; and woodbine,
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine ;
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ;

The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ;
And virgin’s bower, trailing airily ;

With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.

One, kneeling to a lyre, touched 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 odorous dew,

And shook it on his hair; another flew

In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise
Rained violets upon his sleeping eyes.

At these enchantments, and yet many more,
The breathless Latmian wondered o’er and o’er ;
104 ENDYMION,

Until, impatient in embarrassment,

He forthright passed, and lightly treading went

To that same feathered lyrist, who straightway,

Smiling, thus whispered : “‘ Though from upper day

Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence-here

Might seem | unholy, be of happy cheer !__
Oy) Oe

For tis the nicest touch of human honour,

When some ethereal and high-favouring donor

Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ;

As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence

Was I in nowise 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 skimmed

For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimmed

By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums

Ready to melt between an infant’s gums :

And here is manna picked 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: “TI need not any hearing tire

By telling how the sea-born goddess pined

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind

Him all in all unto her doting self.

Who would not be so prisoned ? but, fond elf,

He was content to let her amorous plea

Faint through his careless arms ; content to see

An unseized heaven dying at his feet ;

Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,
ENDYMION. 105

When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,
Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born

Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes

Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs
Came vexed 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 tusked 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 reared
Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he,

That same Adonis,safe in the privacy

Of this still region all his winter-sleep.
Ay, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen
Over his waned corse, the tremulous showe
Healed up the wound, and, with a balmy power,
Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness :
The which she fills with visions, and doth d
In all this quiet luxury ; and hath set
Us young immortals, without any let,

To watch his slumber through. ’Tis wel,
Even to a moment’s filling up, and fast
She scuds with summer breezes, to part through
The first long kiss, warm firstling, to fenew
Embowered sports in Cytherea’s isle’
Look ! how those winged listeners ll this while
Stand anxious: see! behold !’—This clamant word
Broke through the careful silence/; for they heard
A rustling noise of leaves, and ottt there fluttered
Pigeons and doves: Adonis somnething muttered,

 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 

ess

‘nigh passed,

  
 
  
 

 

* Proserpine is fabled as having restored dae to life on condition that he
should spend six months with her in Tartarus, and six months on earth with
Venus. Thus the alternate return of summer and winter were allegorized.
106

ENDYMION.

The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh
Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually
Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum

Of sudden voices, echoing, “‘ Come ! come!
Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walked
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talked

Full soothingly to every nested finch :

Rise, Cupids ! or we'll give the bluebell pinch

To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin !”
At this, from every side they hurried in,

Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,

And doubling over head their little fists

In backward yawns. But all were soon alive:

For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive

In nectared clouds and curls through water fair,

So from the arbour roof down swelled 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 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 stretched out,
And silken traces lightened in descent ;

And soon, returning from love’s banishment,

Queen Ven leaning dawnvard-open-anned:

er shadow fell upon his breast, and charmed

A tumult to his ‘heart, anc and a new life.

Into his eye eyes. Ah, miserable strife,

But for her comforting ! unhappy sight,

But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write

Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.
ENDYMION. 109

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
Thow know’st the e deepness ; of his misery.
Ah, smilé‘not so, my son: I tell thee true,
That when through heavy hours I used to rue
The endless sleep of this new-born Adon’,
This stranger aye 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 teased
Me even to tears: thence, when a little eased,
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 withered leaves, eyen as though.
Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved,
Yet-mutterec-witdly. I Could hear he loved
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace
Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace
108

ENDYMION,

Of this in heaven: I have marked each cheek,
And find it is the vainest thing to seek ;
And that of all things ’tis kept secretest.
Endymion ! a i :
So still obey the guiding hand. that fends

' Theé safely through these-wonders-for-sweet ends.

’Tis a concealment needful in extreme ;

And if I guessed 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 naught ;

And, when all were clear vanished, still he caught
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.

When all was darkened, with Etnean throe

The earth closed—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 assured
Of happy times, when all he had endured
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 polished porticoes of awful shade,

And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,
Leading afar past wild magnificence,

Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence
Stretching across a void, then guiding o’er
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ;
Then heightened just above the silvery heads

 
ENDYMION. 109

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,

Covered with crystal vines ; then weeping trees,
Moving about as in a gentle wind,

Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined,
Poured into shapes of curtained 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
Collecting, mimicked the wrought oaken beams,
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,

Of those dusk places in times far aloof
Cathedrals called. He bade a loth farewell

To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell,
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,
‘Half seen through deepest gloom, and grisly gapes,
Blackening on every side, and overhead

A vaulted dome like Heaven’s, far bespread
With starlight gems: ay, all so huge and strange,
The solitary felt a hurried change

Working within him into something dreary—
Vexed-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,
110

ENDYMION,

Came mother Cybele! alone—alone—

In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown

About her majesty, and front death-pale,

With turrets crowned. Four maned lions hale
The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws,
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails

Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails

This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away

In another gloomy arch.

Wherefore delay,
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ?
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace
The diamond path? And does it indeed end
Abrupt in middle air? Vet 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 :

2

Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel,
And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed,

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seemed
Like honeycombs of green, and freshly teemed

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook

The eagle landed him, and farewe E

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
ENDYMION. OBR

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 stirred them faintly. Verdant cave and cell
He wandered 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 !

Vet 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-haired daughters ?
Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian’s,

Weaving a coronal of tender scions

For very idleness? Where’er thou art,

Methinks it now is at my will to start

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
ENDYMION.

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 Dliss !

A naked waist: ‘“ Fair Cupid,-whence-is this ?”

A well-known voice sighed, “ Sweetest, here am I!”
At which soft ravishment, with doating cry ~ ”
They trembled to each other.—Helicon !

O fountained hill! Qld 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. Ay, 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
“O known Unknown! from whom my being sips
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

 

 
ENDYMION. 113

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, my kindest fair!
Is—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 loved Ida the divine !
Endymion ! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!

His soul will ’scape us—O felicity !

How he does love me! His poor temples beat
To the very tune of love—how sweet, sweet, sweet,
Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ;
Revive, or these short 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 wé 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,

 
114

ENDYMION.

And I must blush in heaven. O that I

Had done it already ; that the dreadful smiles
At my lost brightness, my impassioned wiles,
Had waned from Olympus’ solemn height,
And from all serious Gods ; that our delight
Was quite forgotten, save of us alone!

And wherefore so ashamed? ’Tis but to atone
For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes :
Yet must I be a coward !—Horror rushes

Too palpable before me—the sad look

Of Jove—Minerva’s start—no bosom shook
With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion

In reverence veiled—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—
Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,

An immortality of passion’s thine:

Ere long I will exalt thee.to the shine.

Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade
Ourselves wholé Siitiiihers 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 ;
ENDYMION. 118

Let us entwine hoveringly—O dearth.
eae roughness of mortal speech!

ispings empyrean will I sometime teach
Thine honeyed tongue—lute-breathings, which I gasp
To have thee understand, now while I clasp
Thee thus, and weep for fondness—I am pained,
Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contained
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ?’—
Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife
Melted into a languor. He returned
Entranced vows and tears.

Ye who have yearned

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:

And then the forest told it in a dream

To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam
_A poet caught as he was journeying

To Pheebus’ 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 sentinel stars ; and he who listens to it
Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it:
For quenchless burnings come upon the heart,
Made fiercer by the fear lest any part

Should be engulfed in the eddying wind.

As much as here is penned doth always find

A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain ;
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane—
116

ENDYMION.

And ’tis but echoed 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
Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guessed
How lone he was once more, and sadly pressed
His empty arms together, hung his head,
And most forlorn upon that widowed 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 passed away: no longer did he wage
A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars.
No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars:
The lyre of his soul Aolian tuned
Forgot all violence, and but communed
With melancholy thought : O he had swooned
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 tempered, out he strayed
Half seeing visions that might have dismayed
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,
O’er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls,
And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls,
Of every shape and size, even to the bulk
In which whales harbour close, to brood and sulk
Against an endless storm. Moreover too,
Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue,
ENDYMION, 17

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—
Passed 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 wondroiis night “thé great Pan:festival : ~
His sister’s sorrow ; and, ‘his _wanderings all,
“Until into the earths "deep maw. maw he rushed :

Then all its buried magic, till it till it flushed

High with excessive love. “And “now,” thought he,
“ How long must I remain in _ jeopardy

Of blank amazements that amaze no more?

Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core

All other depths are shallow: essences,

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 outgished, with-imisty- spray,

A copious spring ; and both together dashed
Switt, — fantastic round the rocks, and lashed
118 ENDYMION.

Among the conches 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 poise
Upon the last few steps, and with spent force:
Along the ground they took a winding course.
Endymion followed—for it seemed that one
Ever pursued, the other strove to shun*—
Followed their languid mazes, till well-nigh

He had left thinking of the mystery,—

And was now rapt in tender hoverings

Over the vanished 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!

“© 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 raptured !—See how painfully I flow :
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe.

 

ts The pretty fable of Arethusa has produced one of the most exquisite
ee in our language—Shelley’s ‘‘Arethusa.” Alpheus, the river god,

aving become enamoured of her—she was a nymph of Diana’s train—the
goddess changed her into a fountain, and opened a secret passage under the’
earth for her waters, which rose again in the island of Ortygia, in Sicily, The
river Alpheus followed her under the waves, and rose in the same island.
ENDYMION. 119

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

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead

Where all that beauty snared me.”—“ Cruel god,
Desist ! or my offended mistress’ nod

Will stagnate all thy fountains :—tease me not
With siren 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.”—
“QO, 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.

Not once more did I close my happy eyes

Amid the thrush’s song. Away! Avaunt!

O ‘twas a cruel thing.” —“ Now thou dost taunt
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
120

ENDYMION.

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,
T roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen
Than Saturn in his exile ;. where I brim

Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim
Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees

Buzz from their honeyed wings : and thou shouldst please:
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might
Be incense-pillowed 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 listened, but he heard no more,
Save echo, faint repeating o’er and o’er

The name of Arethusa. On the verge

Of that dark gulf 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 turned—there was a whelming ‘sound—he stept,
There was a cooler light ; and so he kept
ENDYMION. 123

Towards it by a sandy path, and lo!

More suddenly than doth a moment go,

The visions of the earth were gone and fled—
He saw the giant sea above his head.

BOOK IiIt.

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 unpacked
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe

Our gold and ripe-eared 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 belaboured drums,
And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums,
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone—
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, unconfined,

Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
120-

ENDYMION.

Ana poisé about in cloudy thunder-tents

To watch the abysm-birth of elements.

Ay, ’bove the withering of old-lipped 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,
Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair

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 minist’ring 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 everywhere, 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
ENDYMION, 123

Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,

And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf

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 !

Q Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels her forehead’s cumbrous load.*

Cynthia ! where art thou now? What far abode
Of Green este ea do 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 changed, 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
O’erwhelming watercourses ; scaring out
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and frightening
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning.
Where will the splendour be content to reach?
O love! how potent hast thou been to teach

 

* Tellus, the Earth, was the zaost ancient of the gods after Chaos. She is
represented, like Cybele, crowned with turrets ; but the allusion here is to the
pressure of the ocean on the earth.
124

ENDYMION.

Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells,

In gulf or eyrie, 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 gavest Leander breath ;

Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ;
Thou madest Pluto bear thine element ;

And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast sent

Am ep, deep w

‘o find Endymion.
Passenceaias nana SAE

On gold sand impearled
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white,
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed 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 stayed
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.
And so he kept, until the rosy veils
Mantling the east, by Aurora’s peering hand
Were lifted from the water’s breast, and fanned
Into sweet air; and sobered 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 roamed,
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foamed
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 brazen beaks and-targe;
ENDYMION. 125

Rudders that for a hundred years had lost
The-sway of human hand ; gold vase embossed
: én story, “ind “wherein

No reveller had ever dipped 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 Teviathan;—--.- -—-

And elepliant; and eagle, and huge jaw
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe
These secrets struck into him; and unless
Dian had chased 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 smiled.
Thou seemedst 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 cooled 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 time 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 sprite
126 ENDYMION,

If it went not to solemnize thy reign.

Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain

By thee were fashioned 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 wo: ovely 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: @ kind,

ee “infiwenc d do not' blind
sovereign sisiou=—Iearest Tove’ 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 surprised 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.*

 

"™ * Giaucus, the fisherman, who became asea-deity. Keats has greatly altered
the old myth of Glaucus and Scylla. ee pea ines
ENDYMION. 127

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 wrapped 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
Were emblemed in the woof; with every shape
That skims, or dives, or sleeps, ‘twixt cape and cape.
The gulfing whale was like a dot in the spell,
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 show his little eye’s anatomy.

Then there was pictured 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 conned

So steadfastly, that the new denizen

Had time to keep him in amazed ken,

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

The old man raised his hoary head and saw
The wildered 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 to magic ploughs
Furrowed deep wrinkles in his forehead large,
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,

Till round his withered lips had gone a smile.
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil
Had watched for years in forlorn hermitage,
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age
128

\

ENDYMION,

Eased in one accent his o’er-burdened soul,

Even to the trees. He rose: he grasped his stole,
With convulsed clenches waving it abroad,

And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed

Echo into oblivion, he said :—~

“ Thou art.the-mair! 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 pierced and stung
With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ?
T'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 hurled
With rapture to the other side of the world!
O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,
I bow full hearted to your old decree !
Yes, every god be thanked, and power benign,
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.
Thou art the man!” Endymion started back
Dismayed ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
Muttered ; “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 ?
ENDYMION. 129

Or tear me piecemeal 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 garnered. I must stoop

My head, and kiss death’s foot. Love ! love, farewell !
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 thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,

I care not for this old mysterious man !”

He spake, and walking to that aged form,
Looked high defiance. Lo! his heart ’gan warm
With pity, for the grey-haired creature wept.
Had he then wronged a heart where sorrow kept ?
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human 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 careworn sage, who trembling felt
About his large dark locks, and faltering spake :

“ Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus’ sake !
I know thy 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
ae 9
£30

ENDYMION.

pi A caer Though thou knowest it not,
ou art_commissoned_to-this-fated-spot

es

For great enfranchi O weep no more;

I am a friend to love, to loves of yore :

Ay, hadst thou never loved 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 displayed,
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 jewelled sands
Took silently their footprints :

“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.
if was a fisher once, upon this main,

‘And my boat danced in every creek and bay ;
Rough billows were my home by night and day,—
The seagulls not more constant ; for I had

No housing from the storm and tempests mad,
But hollow rocks,—and they were palaces
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease :

Long years of misery have told me so.
Ay, thus it was one thousand years ago.

One thousand years !—Is it then possible

To look so plainly through them ? to dispel

 
ENDYMION, ij

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.

“T touched 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,
When a dread waterspout had reared aloft
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, gulfed 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 blushed no summer eve but I would steer
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear
The shepherd’s pipe come clear from aerie steep,
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep :
And never was a day of summer shine,
But I beheld its birth upon the brine :
132

ENDYMION.

For I would watch all night to see unfold
Heaven’s gates, and Aithon 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

With daily boon of fish most delicate :

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 distempered 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 plunged 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-fledged bird that first doth show
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,

I tried in fear the pinions of my will.

*Twas freedom! and at once I visited

The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed.

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.
ENDYMION. 133

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 loved 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 flashed, that Circe might find some relief—
Cruel enchantress! So above the water

I reared my head, and looked for Phoebus’ daughter.
A®iea’s isle was wondering at the moon:

It seemed to whirl around me, and a swoon
Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.

“ When I awoke, ’twas in a twilight bower ;
Just when the light of moon, 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 looked upon
Pushed 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 flowered Elysium. Thus did fall
The dew of her rich speech: ‘Ah! art awake?

O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid’s sake!
134

ENDYMION.

I am so oppressed 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
Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ;

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 linked
Her charming syllables, till indistinct

Their music came to my o’er-sweetened soul ;
And then she hovered over me and stole

So near, that if no nearer it had been

This furrowed 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 condemned,
The current of my former life was stemmed,
And to this arbitrary queen of sense
I bowed a tranced vassal : nor would thence
Have moved, even though Amphion’s harp had wooed
Me back to Scylla o’er the billows rude.
For as Apollo each eve doth devise
A new apparelling for western skies ;
ENDYMION, 135

So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour
Shed baimy consciousness within that bower.
And I was free of haunts umbrageous ;
Could wander in the mazy forest-house

Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antlered deer,
And birds from coverts innermost and drear
Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow—
To me newborn 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 searched the forest o’er.
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom

Damp awe assailed me ; for there ’gan to boom

A sound of moan, an agony of sound,

Sepulchral from the distance all around.

Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled
That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled
Down a precipitous path, as if impelled.

I came to a dark valley.—Groanings swelled
Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew,

The nearer I approached a flame’s gaunt blue,
That glared. before me through a thorny brake.
This fire, like the eye of gordian snake,
Bewitched me towards ; and I soon was near

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear :
136

ENDYMION,

In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene—
‘Che banquet of my arms, my arbour queen,
eated upon an uptorn forest root ;
And all around her shapes, wizard and brute,
Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting,
howing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting !

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 fantasied. Fierce, wan,

And tyrannizing was the lady’s look,

As over them a gnarled staff she shook.

Oft-times upon the sudden she laughed out,

And from a basket emptied to the rout

Clusters of grapes, the which they ravened quick

And roared 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 :

Groaned 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 whisked 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 vanished.

Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banished
ENDYMION. 137

These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark
Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark,
With dancing and loud revelry,—and went
Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent.
Sighing an elephant appeared and bowed
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 ;

T sue not for my phalanx on the plain ;

I sue not for my lone, my widowed 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 naught so heavenward, so too—too high
Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die,

Or be delivered 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
Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come
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 prepared to flee
Into the dungeon core of that wild wood :

I fled three days—when lo ! before me stood
ENDYMION.

Glaring the an itch. 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.
h, no—it shall not pine, and pine, and pine
ore 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

ternally 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
And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung
ENDYMION. 139

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
Enforcéd, 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 remained
Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drained.

“Young lover, I must weep—such hellish spite
With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might
Proving upon this element, dismayed,

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

Ll —'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 loved her ?—Cold, O cold indeed
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed
The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was
I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass
Fleet as an arrow through unfathomed brine,
Until there shone a fabric crystalline,

Ribbed and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl.
Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl

Gained its bright portal, entered, 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 fevered parchings up, my scathing dread
140

ENDYMION,

Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became
Gaunt, withered, sapless, feeble, cramped, and lame.

“ Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space,
Without one hope, without one faintest trace
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble
Of coloured fantasy ; for I fear ‘twould trouble
Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell
How a restoring chance came down to quell
One half the witch in me.

“On a day,
Sitting upon a rock above the spray,
I saw grow up from the horizon’s brink
la gallant vessel: soon she seemed to sink
Away from me again, as though her course
Had been resumed in spite of hindering force—
So vanished : and not long, before arose
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose.
Old Zolus would stifle his mad spleen,
But could not : therefore all the billows green
Tossed 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 gulfing ; the poor struggling souls:
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls.
O they had all been saved but crazed eld
Annulled my vigorous cravings: and thus quelled
And curbed, 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,
ENDYMION. 141

When at my feet emerged an old man’s hand,
Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand.

I knelt with pain—reached out my hand—had grasped
These treasures—touched the knuckles—they unclasped—
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.

 

“ In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch,
Doomed with enfeebled carcass to outstretch
His loathed existence through ten centuries,
And then to die alone. Who can devise
A total opposition? Noone. So
One million times ocean must ebb and flow,
And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die,
These things accomplished :—Lf he utterly
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds 3
Lf he explores all forms and substances
Straight homeward to their symbotl-essences ;
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief,
He must pursue this task of joy and grief
142

ENDYMION.

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 loved 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 destroyed.”

“Then,” cried the young Endymion, overjoyed,
“We are twin brothers in this destiny!
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved.
What ! if from thee my wandering feet had swerved,
Had we both perished ?”—“ Look !” the sage replied,
“‘ Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide,
Of divers brilliances ? ’tis the edifice
I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies ;
And where I have enshrined piously
All lovers, whom fell storms have doomed to die
Throughout my bondage.”—Thus discoursing, on
They went till unobscured the porches shone ;
Which hurryingly they gained, and entered 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 legioned 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,
ENDYMION, 143

The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced
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 marked their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair
Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ;

And each one’s gentle wrists, with reverence,

Put cross-wise to its heart.

“ Let us commence,”
Whispered the guide, stuttering with joy, “ even now.”
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough,
an_to is scroll in pieces small,
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral.
He tore it into pieces small as snow
That drifts unfeathered when bleak northerns blow ;
And having done it, took his dark blue cloak
And bound it round Endymion: then struck
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 ;
land 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 marked with any sign or charactery—
Canst thou read aught? O read for pity’s sake!
Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break
This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal.”

"Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall
Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sighed
144

ENDYMION.

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,

Endymio laucus stood apart,

And scattered in his face some fragments hght.
How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight
Smiling beneath a coral diadem,

Out-sparkling sudden like an upturned gem,
Appeared, and, stepping to a beauteous corse,
Kneeled down beside it, and with tenderest force
Pressed its cold hand, and wept,—a: i !
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 passed, 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.

The Latmian persevered along, and thus

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 gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment
Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent.
Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers,

Budded, and swelled, 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 oozed out.
Speechless they eyed each other, and about
ENDYMION. 145

The fair assembly wandered to and fro,
Distracted with the richest overflow
Of joy that ever poured 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,

Into the vaulted, boundless emerald.

Joyous all followed, as the leader called,

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
Moved on for many a league; and gained, and lost
Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelling in array,

And from the rear diminishing away,—

Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried,

“Behold! behold, the palace of his pride!

God Nepiune’s palaces!” With noise increased,

They shouldered on towards that brightening east.
10
146

ENDYMION.

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 swelled.
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld

By jasper pilla Jetting through their shafts

A blush of coral, Copious wonder-draughts
Each gazer drank ; and deeper drank more near:
For what peor mortals fragment up, as mere

As marble was there lavish, to the vast

Of one fair palace, that far, far surpassed,

Even for common bulk, those olden three,
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh.

As large, as bright, as coloured as the bow
Of Iris, when unfading it doth show
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
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise.
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze
Ripe from hue-gelden 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
ENDYMION. 147

Their doming curtains, high, magnificent,

Awed from the throne aloof ;—and when storm-rent
Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove’s air ;
But soothed as now, flashed sudden everywhere,
Noiseless, submarine 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 feathered Indian darts about, as through

The delicatest air: air verily,

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
ill Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ;
he Nereids danced ; the Sirens faintly sang ;
nd the great Sea-King bowed his dripping head.
hen Love took wing, and from his pinions shed
n all the multitude a nectarous dew.
he ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ;
And when they reached 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 teardrops instant fell
From the God’s large eyes ; he smiled delectable,
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands.
“Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands
148

ENDYMION.

Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour

I met thee in earth’s bosom, all my power

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

Visit my Cytherea: 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 outreached ;
And plundered vines, teeming exhaustless, pleached
New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ;
The which, in disentangling for their fire,
Pulled down fresh foliage and coverture
For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure,
Fluttered and laughed, and oft-times through the throng
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song,
And garlanding grew wild ; and pleasure reigned.
In harmless tendril they each other chained,
And strove who should be smothered deepest in
Fresh crush of leaves.
ENDYMION. 149

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 feared 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 Kolus thy foe
Skulks to his cavern, ’mid the gruff complaint
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team
Gulfs 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 furrowed 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 ;
iso ENDYMION.

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 AZolian twang of Love’s own bow,
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear

Of goddess Cytherea !

Vet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes
On our souls’ sacrifice.

“ Bright-winged Child !
Who has another care when thou hast smiled ?
Unfortunates on earth, we see at last
All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast
Our spirits, fanned away by thy light pinions.
O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions !
God of warm pulses, and dishevelled hair,
And panting bosoms bare !
Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser
Of light in light! delicious poisoner !
Thy venomed 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 sheepfold,
Before he went into his quiet cave
To muse for ever.—Then a lucid wave,
Scooped from its trembling sisters of mid-sea,
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty
Of Doris, arid the Aégean seer,* her spouse—
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs,

 

* Nereus, a deity of the sea. Doris was goddess of the sea, Nereus was
endowed ina Tematkable degree with the spirit of prophecy.
ENDYMION. ISI

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 a
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 purposed 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 starlight on the dark above:

Dearest Endymion ! my entire love!

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
Fer ready eggs, before P'Ul kissing snatch

Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awaket

The youth at once arose: a placid lake
Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green,
Cooler than all the wonders he had seen,
Lulled with its simple song his fluttering breast.
How happy once again in grassy nest !
152

ENDYMION.

BOOK IV.

‘Muss 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,
Apolio’s garland :—yet didst thou divine

Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain,

“ Come hither, Sister of the Island!” Plain
Spake fair Ausonia ;* and once more she spake
A higher summons :—still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won

A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know’st what prison,
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit’s wings : despondency besets

Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn

Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.

Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I] thought on poets gone,
And could not pray :—nor can I now—so on

I move to the end in lowliness of heart.

“Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!

 

* Italy. It received the name from Auson, the son of Ulysses.
ENDYMION. 153

Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields !

To one so friendless the clear freshet yields

A bitter coolness: the ripe grape is sour :

Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air—let me but die at home.”

Endymion to heaven’s airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reached 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.

“Ts no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice ? No sweet saying
To set my dull and saddened 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 P
See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless ?
Phoebe is fairer far—O gaze no more:
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty’s store
Behold her panting in the forest grass !
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass
For tenderness the arms so idly lain
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain,
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
After some warm delight, that seems to perch
154

ENDYMION.

Dove-like in the dim cell lying beyond
Their upper lids p—Hist !

“© for Hermes’ wand,
To touch this flower into human shape !
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape
From his green prison, and here kneeling down
Call me his queen, his second life’s fair crown !
Ah me, how I could love !—My soul doth melt
For the unhappy youth—Love! I have felt
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,
That but for tears my life had fled away !
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
There is no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love: there’s not a sound,
Melodious howsoever, can confound :
The heavens and earth in one to such a death
As doth the voice of love: there’s not a breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
Of passion from the heart !”

Upon a bough
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot naw

Thirst for another love: O impious,

That he can even dream upon it thus !
Thought he, ee eee
Since to a woe Te this I Have been led
rough 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.
L[ have a triple soul! O fond pretence—

For both, for both my love is so immense,
I feel my heart is cut for them in twain.”
ENDYMION, 155

And so he groaned, 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 musk-rose upon new-made hay ;
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.

“Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I

Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity !

O pardon me, for I am full of grief—

Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest thief!
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith

I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith
Thou art my executioner, and I feel

Loving and hatred, misery and weal,

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
And all my story that much passion slew me 3
Do smile upon the evening of my days:

And, for my tortured 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-caverned 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 sobbed awhile, and then replied :
“Why must such desolation betide

As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks
Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks

Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,
Schooling its half-fledged 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,
156

ENDYMION,

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 ronndelay:

 

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

“ O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ?
To give the glowworm light ?
Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on siren 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 may’st listen the cold dews among?

“O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May ?
ENDYMION. 157

A lover would not tread
A cowslip on the head,
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—
Nor any drooping flower
Held sacred for thy bower,
Wherever he may sport himself and play.

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

“Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,

I sat a-weeping : in the whole world wide

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

Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
Cold as my fears.

“ Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,

I sat a-weeping: what enamoured bride,

Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
But hides and shrouds

Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side ?

“ And as J sat, over the light blue hills
There came a noise of revellers: the rills

Into the wide stream came of purple hue—
*Twas Bacchus and his crew!
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
From kissing cymbals made a merry din—
'  ’Twas Bacchus and his kin!
158

ENDYMION,

Like to a moving vintage down they came,
Crowned 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 chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:
I rushed into the folly !

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

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

“Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye !
So many, and so many, and such glee?
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left
Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?
For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ;
ENDYMION. 159

For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,
And cold mushrooms ;
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ;
Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth !
Come hither, lady fair; and joined be
To our mad minstrelsy ?

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

“ Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,

From rear to van they scour about the plains ;

A three days’ journey in a moment done:

And always, at the rising of the sun,

About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,
On spleenful unicorn.

“T saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
Before the vine-wreath crown !
I saw parched Abyssinia rouse and sing
To the silver cymbals’*ring !
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce
Old Tartary the fierce !
The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,
And from their treasures scatter pearléd hail ;
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,
And all his priesthood moans ;
160

ENDYMION,

Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.
Into these regions came I following him,
Sick-hearted, weary—so I took a whim
To stray away into these forests drear

Alone, without a peer:
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

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

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

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

O what a sigh she gave in finishing,
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her ;
And listened to the wind that now did stir
About the crisped oaks full drearily,
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be
Remembered from its velvet summer song.
At last he said: “ Poor lady, how thus long
ENDYMION, 161

Have I been able to endure that voice ?

Fair Melody ! kind Siren! 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 Pheebe, no!

Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think ?

O thou couldst foster me beyond the brink

Of recollection ! make my watchful care

Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair !
Do gently murder half my soul, and I '

Shall feel the other half so utterly !

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

O let it blush so ever ! let it soothe

My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.
This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is ;

And this is sure thine other softling—this
Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!

Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!

And whisper one sweet word that I may know
This is this world—sweet dewy blossom !”— Woe /
Woe! Woe to that Endymion ! Where is he?
Even these words went echoing dismally
Through the wide forest—a most fearful tone,
Like one repenting in his latest moan ;

And while it died away a shade passed by,

As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly
Through the thick branches, poor ringdoves 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-feathered Mercury appeared sublime
Beyond the tall tree-tops ; and in less time

‘Than shoots the slanted hailstorm, down he dropt
Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor stopt

11
162

ENDYMION.

One moment from his home : only the sward
He with his wand light touched, and heavenward
Swifter than sight was gone—even before

The teeming earth a sudden witness bore

Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear
Above the crystal circlings white and clear ;

And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,

How they can dive in sight and unseen rise—
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,
Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.
The youth of Caria placed 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
Exhaled 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 untired.
Muse of my native land, am I inspired ?

This is the giddy air, and I must spread

Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread

Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance

Those towering horses and their mournful freight.
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid >
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade

 From'some approaching wonder, and behold
‘Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold

Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,
Dying to embers from their native fire!

There curled a purple mist around them ; soon,
It seemed as when around the pale new moon
ENDYMION. 163

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 left aloof the day and morning’s prime—

Because into his depth Cimmerian

There came a dream, showing how a young man,

Ere a Tean bat could plump its wintry skin,

Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win

An immortality, and how espouse

Jove's daughter, and be reckoned of his hause.
ow was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate,

That he might at the threshold one hour wait

To hear the marriage melodies, and then

Sink downward to his dusky cave again.

His litter of smooth semilucent mist,

Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst,

Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought ;

And scareely for one moment could be caught

His sluggish form reposing motionless.

Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress

Of vision searched 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 fostered 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,—
164

ENDYMION,

And on those pinions, level in mid-air,

- Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks
On heaven’s pavement ; brotherly he talks
To divine powers : from his hand full fain
Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain :
He tries the nerve of Phcebus’ 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-brimmed 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-kirtled 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?P—’Tis Dian’s : lo!
She rises crescented !” He looks, ’tis she,

r : E

His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,

oe a ain a a oan
Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he th he spring
“Towards her, and awakes—and strange, o’erhead,_
‘Of these came Gagant exhalations bred,

Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling ; merry Hebe laughs and nods;

And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
ENDYMION. 165

O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,

Too well awake, he feels the panting side

Of his delicious lady. He who died

For soaring too audacious in the sun,

Where that same treacherous wax began to run,
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion,

His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,

To that fair shadowed passion pulsed its way—
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well-a-day !

So fond, so beauteous was his bedfellow,

He could not help but kiss her: then he grew
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save

Young Pheebe’s, golden haired; and so ’gan crave
Forgiveness : yet he turned once more to look
At the sweet sleeper,—all his soul was shook,—
She pressed his hand in slumber ; so once more
He could not help but kiss her and adore.

At this the shadow wept, melting away.

The Latmian started up: “ Bright goddess, stay!
Search my most hidden breast! By truth’s own tongue,
I have no dedale heart : why is it wrung

To desperation ? Is there naught 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
Pillowed 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,
166

ENDYMION.

Even when I feel as true as innocence ?

I do, I do.—What is this soul then ? Whence
Came it? It does not seem my own, and I

Have no self-passion or identity.

Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?

By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit

Alone about the dark—Forgive me, sweet :

Shall we away?” He roused the steeds: they beat
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,

Leaving old Sleep within his-vapoury lair.

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

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 scimitar ;
Bright signal that she only stooped to tie
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
She bowed into the heavens her timid head.
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,
While to his lady meek the Carian turned,
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discerned
This beauty in its birth_—Despair ! despair !
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare
ENDYMION. 167

In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist ;
It melted from his grasp : her hand he kissed,
‘And, horror ! kissed his own—he was alone.
Her steed a little higher soared, 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 venomed dart
At random flies ; they are the proper home
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear
No sound so loud as when on curtained 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 ;
168

ENDYMION.

Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.

O happy spirit-home !_ O wondrous soul !
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole

In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian !

For, never since thy griefs and woes began,

Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud

Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude.

Ay, his lulled 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 feathered horse: with fierce alarm .
He flapped towards the sound. Alas, no charm
Could lift Endymion’s head, or he had viewed
A skyey mask, a pinioned multitude,—

And silvery was its passing : voices sweet
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet

The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,
While past the vision went in bright array :

“Who, who from Dian’s feast would be away ?
For all the golden bowers of the day
Are empty left? Who, who away would be
From Cynthia’s wedding and festivity ?
Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings
He leans away for highest heaven and sings,
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily !
Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too!
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill

Your baskets high

With fennel green. and balm, and golden pines,
ENDYMION. 169

Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ;
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,
All gathered 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 feathered wings,
Two fan-like fountains—thine illuminings
For Dian play :
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
Show cold through watery pinions ; make more bright
The Star-Queen’s crescent on her marriage night :
Haste, haste away!
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery :
A third is in the race! who is the third,
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ?
The ramping Centaur !
The Lion’s mane’s on end: the Bear how fierce !
The Centaur’s arrow ready seems to pierce
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent |
Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent,
Pale unrelentor,
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a-playing. °
Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying
So timidly among the stars : come hither!
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither
They all are going.
Danaé’s Son,* before Jove newly bowed,
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.

 

* Perseus ; he delivered Andromeda from the sea monster, and wedded
her.
170

ENDYMION.

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
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness
For my own sullen conquering : to him
Who lives beyond earth’s boundary, grief is dim,
Sorrow is but a shadow : now I see

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

It is thy voice—divinest! Where ?—who? who
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?

Behold upon this happy earth we are ;

Let us 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 too? By thee will I sit
For ever: let our fate stop here—a kid

I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid

Us live in peace, in love and peace among
His forest wildernesses. I have clun

To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen

Or felt but a great dream! Q_ [have heen

Presumptuous against love, against the sk
Against all elements, against i
ENDYMION. 173

Of mortals each to each, against the blooms

Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs

Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory

Has my own soul conspired : so my story

Will I to children utter, and repent.

There never lived a mortal man, who bent

His appetite beyond his natural sphere,

But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here,
Here will I kneel, for thou redeeméd hast

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past
Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell!
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. y Indian bliss! ,
My river-lily bud ! one human kiss !
fon sigh of real breath—one gentle squeeze,

arm 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
172

ENDYMION.

Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined :

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-clawed stag :
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,

That thou mayst always know whither I roam,
When it shall please thee in our quiet home

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak ;
Still let me dive into the joy I seek—

For yet the past doth prison me. The rill,
Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn,

And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel’s barn.
Its bottom will I strew with amber shells,

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.
Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,
And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.

I will entice this crystal rill to trace

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

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

And to god Phcebus, for a golden lyre ;

To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear ;

To Vesper, for a taper silver clear,

That I may see thy beauty through the night ;
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light

Tame on thy finger ; to the River-gods,

And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods

Of gold, and lines of Naiads’ long bright tress.
Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness !
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be

’Fore which I’ll bend, bending, dear love, to thee:
ENDYMION. 173

Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak

Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,

Trembling or steadfastness 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 seizure >

O that I could not doubt !”

The mountaineer
‘Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear
His briared 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
Beamed upward from the valleys of the east :
“© that the flutter of this heart had ceased,
Or the sweet name of love had passed away.
Young feathered tyrant! by a swift decay
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth :
And I do think that at my very birth
I lisped thy blooming titles inwardly ;
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee,
With uplift hands I blessed the stars of heaven.
Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do!
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave
To the void air, bidding them find out love :
But when I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss—
Even then, that moment, at the thought of this,
174

ENDYMION.

Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers,

And languished there three days. Ye milder powers,
Am I not cruelly wronged? 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 asked whither I went: henceforth
Ask me no more! I may_not utter it,

Nor may I be thy love. We might commit
Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die ;
We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought !
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I’m caught

In trammels of perverse deliciousness.

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

And bid a long adieu.”

The Carian
No word returned : but love-lorn, silent, wan,
Into the valleys green together went.
Far wandering, they were perforce content
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree ;
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily
Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves.

Endymion ! unhappy! it nigh grieves
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme :
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem
Truth the best music in a first-born song.
Thy lute-voiced 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,
ENDYMION. 175

Mourned as if yet thou wert a forester ;
Forgetting the old tale.

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

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

“ Dear brother mine!
Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine
When all great Latmos so exalt 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
£76

ENDYMION.

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 restored, thou, fairest damsel,
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-voiced 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 passed us by,

Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.

O Hermes! on this very night will be

A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light ;
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight

Good visions in the air,_-whence will befall,
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
ENDYMION, 177

What ails thee?” He could bear no more, and so
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,

And twanged it inwardly, and calmly said:

“ T would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!
My only visitor! not ignorant though,

That those deceptions which for pleasure go
*Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:
But there are higher ones I may not see,

If impiously an earthly realm I take.

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake

Night after night, and day by day, until

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.

Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me

More happy than betides mortality.

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

Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well ;
For to thy tongue will I all health confide,

And, for my sake, let this young maid abide

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,

Peona, mayst return to me. I own

This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl,
Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair i
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share

This sister’s love with me?” Like one resigned
And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind

In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown :

“ Ay, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,

Of jubilee to Dian :—truth I heard !

Well then, I see there is no little bird,

Tender soever, but is Jove’s own care.

Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,
Behold I find it! so exalted too !

So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew

12
178

ENDYMION,

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 underground, a sleeper meets his friends
Who know him not. Each diligently bends
Towards common thoughts and things for very fear ;
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,

By thinking it a thing of yes and no,

That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last
Endymion said : ‘‘ Are not our fates all cast?
Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair !
Adieu !” Whereat those maidens, with wild stare,
Walked 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
Engulf 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 f 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—
ENDYMION. 179

But once, once, once again—.” At this he pressed
His hands against his face, and then did rest

His head upon a mossy hillock green,

And so remained as he a corpse had been

All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted
With the slow move of time,—sluggish and weary
Unto the poplar tops, in journey dreary,

Had reached the river’s brim. Then up he rose,
And, slowly as that very river flows,

Walked 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 served.” So saying, he
Tripped lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ;
Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,

As though they jests had been: nor had he done
His laugh at nature’s holy countenance,

Until that grove appeared, as if perchance,

And then his tongue with sober seemlihed

Gave utterance as he entered : “ Ha !” I said,
180

ENDYMION,

“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 drowned
Beyond the reach of music: for the choir

Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar
Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull

The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles,
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,
Wan as primroses gather night

ily-fingered spring. “ Unhappy wight!

Endymion !” said Peona, “we are here !
€ are here:

What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier ?”
Then he embraced her, and his lady’s hand
Pressed, 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,

Apa ane by the lily truth
Of my own breast thouw-shait, beloved youth !”

And as she spake, into her face there came
Light, as reflected from a silver flame:

Her long black hair swelled ampler, in display
Full golden ; in her eyes a brighter day
Dawned blue and full of love. Ay, he beheld
Pheebe, his passion! joyous she upheld
ENDYMION, 181

Her lucid bow, continuing thus: “ Drear, drear
Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear
Withheld me first ; and then decrees of fate ;
And then ’twas fit that from this mortal state
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlooked-for change
Be spiritualized. 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 kissed, and blessed with fair good night :
Her brother kissed 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 vanished far away !—Peona went

SS,
Home ugh the gloomy wood in wonderment.

 
LAMIA,

PART I.

Upon a time, beforeithe fairy broods

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
Before King Oberon’s bright diadem,

Sceptre, and mantle, clasped with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowsliped lawns,
The ever-smitten Hermes* empty left

His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft :
From high Olympus had he stolen light,

On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight

Of his great summoner, and made retreat

Into a forest on the shores of Crete.

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt

A nymph, to whom all hooféd Satyrs knelt ;

At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured
Pearls, while on land they withered and adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt,
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,
Though Fancy’s casket were unlocked to-choose.
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet !

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat

Burnt from his wingéd heels to either ear,

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,

 

* Mercury.
LAMIA, 183

Blushed into roses ’mid his golden hair,

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,

And wound with many a river to its head,

To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed:
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,
And so he rested, on the lonely ground,

Pensive, and full of painful jealousies

Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys

All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake :
“When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake !
When move in a sweet body fit for life,
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife

Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me !”

The God, dove-footed, glided silently

Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,

Until he found a palpitating snake,

Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ;

Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred ;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—

So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries,

She seemed, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar:
184

LAMIA,

Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet !

She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete :
And for her eyes : what could such eyes do there

But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?

As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.

Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake,
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay,

Like a stooped falcon ere he takes his prey:

“Fair Hermes, crowned with feathers, fluttering light,
I had a splendid dream of thee last night :
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear
The soft, lute-fingered Muses chanting clear,
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan.
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,

Break amorous h the clouds, as morning breaks,
Strike for the Cretan_isle ;and here thou art!

Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid ?”
Whereat the star of Lethe not delayed

His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired :

“ Thou smooth-lipped serpent, surely high inspired !
Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,

Possess whatever bliss thou canst: devise,

Telling me only where my nymph is fled,—

Where she doth breathe!” “ Bright planet, thou hast said,”
Returned the snake, “‘ but seal with oaths, fair God !”
“T swear,” said Hermes, “by my serpent rod,

And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown !”

Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.
Then thus again the brilliance feminine :

“Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,

 

 
LAMIA, 185

Free as the air, invisibly, she strays

About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet
Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet ;
From weary tendrils, and bowed branches green,
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen;
And by my power is her beauty veiled

To keep it unaffronted, unassailed

By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,

Of Satyrs, Fauns, and bleared Silenus’ sighs.
Pale grew her immortality, for woe

Of all these lovers, and she grieved so

I took compassion on her, bade her steep

Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep

Her loveliness invisible, yet free

To wander as she loves, in liberty.

Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,

If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon !”
Then, once again, the charméd God began

An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.

Ravished, she lifted her Circean head,

Blushed a live damask, and swift-lisping said :
“T was a woman, let me have once more

A woman’s shape, and charming -as-before.

IT love a yout rinth—O the bliss !

Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is.
Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,
And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.”
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,

She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.
It was no dream ; or say a dream it was,

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
Theit pleasures in a long immortal dream.

One warm, flushed moment, hovering, it might seem
186

LAMIA,

Dashed by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burned ;
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turned
To the swooned serpent, and with languid arm,
Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent

Full of adoring tears and blandishment,

And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,
Faded before him, cowered, nor could restrain
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower

That faints into itself at evening hour :

But the God fostering her chilled hand,

She felt the warmth, her eyelids opened bland,
And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,
Bloomed, and gave up her honey to the lees.

Into the green-recessed woods they flew ;

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.

Left to herself, the serpent now began
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran,
Her mouth foamed, and the grass, therewith besprent,
Withered at dew so sweet and virulent ;
Her eyes in torture fixed, and anguish drear,
Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
Flashed phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.
The colours all inflamed throughout her train,
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain:
A deep volcanian yellow took the place
Of all her milder-moonéd body’s grace ;
And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede ;
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
Eclipsed her crescents, and licked up her stars :
So that, in moments few, she was undrest
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
And rubious-argent : of all these bereft,
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left,
LAMIA, 187

Still shone her crown ; that vanished, also she

Melted and disappeared as suddenly ;

And in the air, her new voice luting soft,

Cried, “Lycius ! gentle Lycius !’—Borne aloft

With the bright mists about the mountains hoar
These words dissolved : Crete’s forests heard no more.

Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,

A full-born beauty new and nd exquisite ?
eens into that valley they pass o’er
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore ;
And rested at the foot of those wild hills,
The rugged founts of the Perzean rills,
And of that other ridge whose barren back
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood -
About a young bird’s flutter from a wood,
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
By a clear pool, wherein she passionéd
To see herself escaped from so sore ills,
While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.

Ah, happy Lycius !—for she was a maid
More beautiful than ever twisted braid,
Or sighed, or blushed, or on spring-flowered lea
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy :
A virgin purest lipped, yet in the lore
Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core:
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain
To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ;
Define their pettish limits, and estrange
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange °
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ;
As though in Cupid’s college she had spent
188

LAMIA.,

Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.

Why this fair creature chose so fairily
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ;
But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,
Of all she list, strange or magnificent :
How, ever, where she willed, her spirit went ;
Whether to faint Elysium, or where
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair
Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair ;
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,

‘Stretched out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ;

Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine
Mulciber’s* columns gleam in far piazzian line.
And sometimes into cities she would send

Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ;
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius
Charioting foremost in the envious race,

Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
And fell into a swooning love of him.

Now on the moth-time of that evening dim

He would return that way, as well she knew,
To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle

Fresh anchored ; whither he had been awhile
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there

Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare,
Jove heard his vows, and bettered his desire ;
For by some freakful chance he made retire

 

* Vulcan.
LAMIA, 189

From his companions, and set forth to walk,
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk :
Over the solitary hills he fared,

Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared
His fantasy was lost, where reason fades,

In the calmed twilight of Platonic shades.

Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near—
Close to her passing, in indifference drear,

His silent sandals swept the mossy green ;

So neighboured to him, and yet so unseen

She stood : he passed, shut up in mysteries,

His mind wrapped like his mantle, while her eyes
Followed his steps, and her neck regal white
Turned—syllabling thus, “ Ah, Lycius bright,
And will you leave me on the hills alone ?
Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.”
He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,

But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ;

For so delicious were the words she sung,

It seemed he had loved them a whole summer long:
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,

And still the cup was full,—while he, afraid

Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid

Due adoration, thus began to adore ;

Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:
“ Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah! Goddess, see
Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!

For pity do not this sad heart belie—

Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.

Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!

To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:

Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain,
Alone they can drink up the morning rain :
Though a descended Pleiad, will not one

Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune
590

LAMIA,

Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?

So sweetly to these ravished ears of mine

Came thy swift greeting, that if thou shouldst fade
Thy memory will waste me to a shade:

For pity do not melt !’—“ If I should stay,”

Said Lamia, “ here upon this floor of clay,

And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,

“What canst thou say or do of charm enough

To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
Over these hills and vales where no joy is,—
Empty of immortality and bliss !

Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know

That finer spirits cannot breathe below -

In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe

My essence? What serener palaces,

Where I may all my many senses please,

And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ?
It cannot be—Adieu !” So said, she rose

Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose
The amorous promise of her lone complain,
Swooned, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
The cruel lady, without any show

Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,

But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,

With brighter eyes and slow amenity,

Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh

The life she had so tangled in her mesh:

And as he from one trance was wakening

Into another, she began to sing,

Happy in beauty, life, and love, and everything,
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires
And then she whispered in such trembling tone,
As those who, safe together, met alone
LAMIA, r9t

For the first time through many anguished days,
Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
For that she was a woman, and without

Any more subtle fluid in her veins

Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.

And next she wondered how his eyes could miss
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
She dwelt but half retired, and there had led
Days happy as the gold coin could invent
Without the aid of love; yet in content

Till she saw him, as once she passed him by,
Where ’gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
At Venus’ temple porch, ‘mid baskets heaped
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reaped
Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before

The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
Lycius from death awoke into amaze,

To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
Then from amaze into delight he fell

To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well ;
And every word she spake enticed him on

To unperplexed delight and pleasure known.
Let the mad poets say whate’er they please

Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
There is not such a treat among them all,
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,

As a real woman, lineal indeed

From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.
Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright,
That Lycius could not love in half a fright,

So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,

With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
192

LAMIA,

That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
Lycius to all made eloquent reply,

Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh ;
And last, pointing to Corinth, asked her sweet,
If twas too far that night for her soft feet.
The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
To a few paces ; not at all surmised

By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised.

They passed the city gates, he knew not how,
So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
Throughout her palaces imperial,
And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
Muttered, like tempest in the distance brewed,
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,
Companioned or alone; while many a light
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
Or found them clustered in the corniced shade
Of some arched temple door, or dusky colonnade.

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
Her fingers he pressed hard, as one came near
With curled grey beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown
Slow-stepped, and robed in philosophic gown:
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and passed,
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
While hurried Lamia trembled: “ Ah,” said he,
Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ?
Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ?”
“T’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “ tell me who
LZAMIA, 193

Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind
His features :—Lycius! wherefore did you blind ©
Yourself from his quick eyes?’ Lycius replied,

“Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
And good instructor ; but to-night he seems
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.”

While yet he spake they had arrived before
A pillared porch, with lofty portal door,
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
Mild as a star in water; for so new,
And so unsullied was the marble hue,
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
Could e’er have touched there. Sounds /£olian
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span
Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown
Some time to any, but those two alone,
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
Were seen about the markets: none knew where
They could inhabit ; the most curious
Were foiled, who watched to trace them to their house:
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befel,
’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.

PART II.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is—Love, forgive us !—cinders, ashes, dust ;
Love in a palace is perhaps at last

More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast :
13
194

LAMIA,

That is a doubtful tale from fairy land,

Hard for the non-elect to understand.

Had Lycius lived to hand his story down,

He might have given the moral a fresh frown,

Or clenched it quite : but too short was their bliss
To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,

Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,
Hovered and buzzed his wings, with fearful roar,
Above the lintel of their chamber door,

And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.

For all this came a ruin: side by side
They were enthronéd, in the even-tide,
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining
Whose airy texture, from a golden string,
Floated into the room, and let appear
Unveiled the summer heaven, blue and clear,
Betwixt two marble shafts :—there they reposed,
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,
Saving a tithe which love still open kept,
That they might see each other while they almost slept ;
When from the slope side of a suburb hill, ,

Deleting Se resloey wrlen Gries ial
f trumpets—Lycins started—the sounds fled,

But lefta thought, a buzzing in his head.
For the first time, -since-first he harboured in

That purple-lined“palace of sweet sin,

His spirit-passed beyond its golden bourne
Into the noisy world almost foresworn.

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,

Saw this with pain, so arguing a want

Of something more, more than her empery
Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well

T uta moment's thought is passion’s passing bell,
LAMTIA. 195

“Why do you sigh, fair creature ?” whispered he:
“Why do you think ?” returned she tenderly :
“You have deserted me ;—where am I now?
Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow :
No, no, you have dismissed me; and I go

From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so.”
He answered, bending to her open eyes,

Where he was mirrowed small in paradise:

“ My silver planet, both of eve and morn!

Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,

While I am striving how to fill my heart

With deeper crimson, and a double smart?

How to entangle, trammel up and snare

Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there

Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose?

Ay, a sweet kiss—you see your mighty woes.

My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then!
What mortal hath a prize, that other men

May be confounded and abashed withal,

But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,
And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth’s voice.

Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,
While through the thronged streets your bridal car
Wheels round its dazzling spokes.” —The lady’s cheek
Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain

Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain
Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,
To change his purpose. He thereat was stung,
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim

Her wild and timid nature to his aim:

Besides, for all his love, in self-despite,

Against his better self, he took delight

Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.

His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue
196

LAMIA.

Fierce and sanguineous as ’twas possible

In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.
Fine was the mitigated fury, like

Apollo’s presence when in act to strike

The serpent— Ha, the serpent! certes, she

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny,
And, all subdued, consented to the hour

When to the bridal he should lead his paramour.
Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,
“ Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth,
I have not asked it, ever thinking thee

Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,

As still Ido. Hast any mortal name,

Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?

Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,

To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ?”
“T have no friends,” said Lamia, “no, not one;
My parents’ bones are in their dusty urns
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,
Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,
And I neglect the holy rite for thee.

Even as you list invite your many guests ;

But if, as now it seems, your vision rests

With any pleasure on me, do not bid ~~

Old Apollonius—from him keepme hid.” _.
Lycius, perplexed at words so blind and blank,
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank,
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade

Of deep sleep in a moment was betrayed.

It was the custom then to bring away
The bride from home at blushing shut of day,
Veiled, in a chariot, heralded along
By strewn flowers, torches, and a martiage song,
LAMIA, 197

With other pageants: but this fair unknown

Had not a friend. So being left along

(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin),

And knowing surely she could never win

His foolish heart from its mad pompousness,

She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress

The misery in fit magnificence.

She did so, but ’tis doubtful how and whence
Came, and who were her subtle servitors.

‘About the halls, and to and from the doors,

There was a noise of wings, till in short space

The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
Supportress of the fairy-roof, made moan
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade

Of palm and plantain, met from either side,

High in the midst, in honour of the bride:

Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,
From either side their stems branched one to one
All down the aisled place; and beneath all

There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall. .
So canopied, lay an untasted feast

Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest,
Silently paced about, and as she went,

In pale contented sort of discontent,

Missioned her viewless servants to enrich

The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,

And with the larger wove in small intricacies.
Approving all, she faded at self-will,

And shut the chamber up, close, hushed and still,
Complete and ready for the revels rude,

When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.
198

LAMIA,

The day appeared, and all the gossip rout.
O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloistered hours,
And show to common eyes these secret bowers?
The herd approached ; each guest, with busy brain,
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain,
And entered marvelling : for they knew the street,
Remembered it from childhood all complete
Without a gap, yet ne’er before had seen
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ;
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen:
Save one, who looked thereon with eye severe,
And with calm-planted steps walked in austere ;

“Twas Apollonius : something too he laughed,
As though some knotty problem, that had daft

His patient thought, had now begun to thaw,
And solve and melt :—’twas just as he foresaw.

He met within the murmurous vestibule
His young disciple. “’Tis no common rule,
“ Lycius,” said he, “for uninvited guest
To force himself upon you, and infest
With an unbidden presence the bright throng
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong,
And you forgive me.” Lycius blushed, and led
The old man through the inner doors broad-spread ;
With reconciling words and courteous mien
Turning into sweet milk the sophist’s spleen.

Of wealthy lustre was the panquet-room,
Filled with pervading brilliance and perfume -
Before each lucid panel fuming stood
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,

Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft
LAMIA, 199

Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke
From fifty censers their light voyage took

To the high roof, still mimicked as they rose
Along the mirrored walls by twin-clouds odorous.
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,
High as the level of a man’s breast reared

On libbard’s* paws, upheld the heavy gold

Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told
Of Ceres’ horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine.
Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,

Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.

When in an ante-chamber every guest
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressed,
By minist’ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet
Poured on his hair, they all moved to the feast
In white robes, and themselves in order placed
Around the silken couches, wondering
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.

Soft went the music the soft air along,
While fluent Greek a vowelled undersong
Kept up among the guests, discoursing low
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ;
But when the happy vintage touched their brains,
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains
Of powerful instruments :—the gorgeous dyes,
The space, the splendour of the draperies,
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia’s self, appear.
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,
And every soul from human trammels freed,
No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine,
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.

 

* Leopard’s,
200

LAMIA,

oon was God Bacchus at meridian height ;
ret tee thelr cheeks, and bright Byes fouble bright :
Garlands of every green, and every scent
From vales deflowered, or forest-trees branch-rent,
In baskets of bright osiered gold were brought
High as the handles heaped, to suit the thought
Of every guest; that each, as he did please,
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillowed at his ease.

What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?
What for the sage, old Apollonius ?
Upon her aching forehead be there hung
The leaves of willow and of adder’s tongue,
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim
Into forgetfulness ; and for the sage,
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage

War on his temples. ee te
pe ee
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven :
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made

The tender-personed Lamia melt into a shade.

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,
Scarce saw in all the room another face,
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took
Full brimmed, and opposite sent forth a look
’Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance
From his old teacher’s wrinkled countenance,
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher
Had fixed his eye, without a twinkle or stir
LAMTA, 201

Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,
Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.
Lycius then pressed her hand, with devout touch,
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch :
Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ;

hen sudden it grew hot, and all the pains

f an unnatural heat shot to his heart.
“ Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start ?
Know’st thou that man?” Poor Lamia answered not.
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot
\Owned they the love-lorn piteous appeal :
More, more he gazed: his human senses reel :
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ;
There was no recognition in those orbs.
“‘Lamia!” he cried—and no soft-toned reply.
The many heard, and the loud revelry
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ;
The myrtle sickened in a thousand wreaths.
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased 3
A deadly silence-step by step increased,
Until it seemed a horrid presence there,
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.
‘Lamia !” he shrieked ; and nothing but the shrick
With its sad echo did the silence break.
“ Begone, foul dream!” he cried, gazing again
In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein
Wandered on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume
The deep-recessed vision :—all was blight ;
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.
“Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man !
Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban
Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
Here represent their shadowy presences,
May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn
Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn,
202 LAMIA.

In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright

Of conscience, for their long offended might,

For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.

Corinthians ! look upon that grey-beard wretch !

Mark how, possessed, his lashless eyelids stretch

Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see !

My sweet bride withers at their potency.”

“ Fool!” said the sophist, in an under-tone

Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan

From Lycius answered, as heart-struck and lost,

He sat supine beside the aching ghost.

“ Fool! Fool!” repeated he, while his eyes still

Relented not, nor moved ; “fram every ill

Of life hay i 5

And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey?”
ike a sharp spear, went through her utterly,

Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well

As her weak hand could any meaning tell,

Motioned him to be silent ; vainly so,

He looked and looked again a level—No!

a ent!” echoed he; no sooner said,
Than with aNti ishéd :

And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,

As were his limbs of life, from that same night.

On the high couch he lay !—his friends came round—
Supported him—no pulse, or breath they found,

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.*

 

__ * ‘Philostratus, in his fourth book de Vita Apollonii, hath a memorable
instance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young
man twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, met
such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which taking him by the
hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him
she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he should hear
her sing and play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should
LAMIA. 203

molest him ; but she, being fair and lovely, would live and die with him, that
was fair and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, otherwise stai
‘wih er awhile wo is gosat-conteaand af Ta mice —to" Wise Wed
img, amongst other guests, came Apollonius; who, by some probable con-
jectures, found her out to be 2 serpent 2_lamia ; 3 and that all her furniture
was, like Tantalus’ gold, described by Homer, no substance but mere illusions.
When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent,

but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was
in it, vanished in an instant: many thousands took notice of this fact, for it

was done inthe midst of Greece.” —BURTON’s Anatomy 9 art 3,

sect. 2, memb. I, subs. I,

 
ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL.

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO.

IL

Farr_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 soothéd each to be the other by ;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II.

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 spoiled her half-done broidery with the same.

IIL.
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 turned to the same skies ;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL, 205

Iv.

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 ;

v.

Until sweet Isabella’s untouched 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 tear
And at the least twill startle off her cares.”

Vi.

So said he one fair morning, and all day

His heart beat awfully against his side ;
And to his heart he inwardly did pray

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide
Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away—

Fevered his high conceit of such a bride,
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild !

VII.
So once more he had waked and anguishéd
A dreary night of love and misery,
If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed
To every symbol on his forehead high ;
206

ISABELLA; OR,

She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

And straight all flushed ; so, lisped tenderly,
“ Lorenzo !’—here she ceased her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.

VIII.

“© Isabella, I can half perceive
That I may speak my grief into thine ear ;
If thou didst ever anything 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.

x.

“ 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 poesiéd with hers in dewy-rhyme :

Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress.

x

Parting they seemed 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 honeyed dart ;
He with light steps went up a western hill,
And bade the sun farewell, and joyed his fill.
THE POT OF BASIL. 204

XL

All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.

Ah! better had it been for ever so,

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

XII

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.

XIII.
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 embalmed, this truth is not the less—
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

XIV.
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enrichéd from ancestral merchandize,

 

 

 

* Ariadne,
208

ISABELLA ; OR,

And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torchéd mines and noisy factories, _
And many once proud-quivered 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.

XV.
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark ;
For them his ears gushed 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 turned an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

XVI.
Why were they proud? Because their marble founts
Gushed 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-lined accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ?
‘Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud,
Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

XVII.

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 panniered mules for ducats and old lies—
Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,—
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
THE POT OF BASIL,

XVIII.

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.

XIX.

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.

Xx.

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.

XXL
These_brethren having found by many signs _
What love Lorenzo for their sister had, .
And how she loved him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad

14

209
210

ISABELLA; OR,

Th the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad,

When ’twas thei to coax her by degrees
To some high noble and-his_olive-trees.

XXII.

And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone,
Before they fixed 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 resolvéd in some forest dim
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.

XXIII.

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
Into the sunrise, 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.

XXIV.

“To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ;
Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count

His dewy rosary on the eglantine.”
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, }
Bowed a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine \
And went in haste, to get in readiness,
With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress,
THE POT OF BASIL, 21

XXV.

And as he to the courtyard passed along,

Each third step did he pause, and listened 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 indoor lattice, all delight.

XXVIL
“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 —_—-

 

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

XXVIII.
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
212

ISABELLA ; OR,

As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin :

They dipped their swords in the water, and did tease
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
Each richer by his being a murderer.

XXIX.

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 th eed,
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.

XXX,

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 seemed 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?”

*
XXXI.

But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, hald 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.
THE POT OF BASIL. 213

XXXIL

In the mid-days of autumn, on their eves

The breath of winter comes from far away,
And the sick west continually bereaves

Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves,

To make all bare before he dares to stray
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel

By gradual decay from beauty fell,

XXXIII.

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes

She asked 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 groaned aloud,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.

XXXIV.
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 feathered 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.

XXXV.
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 marred his glossy hair which once could shoot
eI4

ISABELLA ; OR,

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom

Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loaméd ears
Had made a miry channel for his tears.

XXXVI.

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 moaned a ghostly under-song,

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.

XXXVII.

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 darkened time—the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice—the dark pine roof
In the forest—and the sodden turféd dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.

XXXVIII.

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 sheepfold 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.
THE POT OF BASIL, 215

XXXIX.

“T 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.

XL.

“T 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.”

XLI.
The Spirit mourned “ Adieu !”—dissolved, 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;

XLIL
“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
Portioned us—happy days, or else to die ;
216

ISABELLA ; OR,

But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife !
Sweet Spirit, thou hast schooled my infancy:

T'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,

And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”

XLII.

When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie ;

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
And sing to it one latest lullaby ;

How her short absence might be unsurmised,
While she the inmost of the dream would try.

Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse,

And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

XLIV.

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 shouldst smile again?’ The evening came,
And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.

XLV.

Who hath not loitered in a green churchyard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
To see skull, coffined bones, and funeral stole ;

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marred,
And filling it once more with human soul?

Ah! this is holiday to what was felt

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.
THE POT OF BASIL. 217

XLVI.
She gazed 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 seemed 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.

XLVII.

Soon she turned up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had played in purple fantasies,
She kissed 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 stayed her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

XLVIIL
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 laboured at this travail sore ;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And Isabella did not stamp and rave.

XLIX,
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 !
218

ISABELLA; OR,

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.

L.
With duller steel than the Perséan sword
T. ut away no formless e

But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,

_Ldve never dies, but lives, immortal lord :

{ If Love impersonate was ever dead,
ale Isabella kissed it, and low moaned.
Twas love ; cold—dead indeed, but not dethroned.

LI.

In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel :

She its wild hair with a golden comb,
And peo coe epee epeiciaal et
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam

With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drenched away: and still she combed, and kept
Sighing all day—and still she kissed and wept.

LIT.

Then in a silken scarf—sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers, plucked in Araby,

And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully—
She wrapped it up ; and for its tamb did choose

A gar
And covered it syith anenild, and o’er it set

Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.

 
THE POT OF BASIL. 219

LILI,

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,

And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ;

She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,

_And moistened it with tears unto the core.

LIV.
And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
ence thick, Teen, an tiful 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 leaflets spread.

LV.
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.

LVI.
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 ;
220

ISABELLA; OR,

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.

LVII.

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

LVHI.

nd, furthermore, her brethren wondered much
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,

And why it flourished, as by magic touch ;

Greatly they wondered 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.

LIX.

Therefore they watched a time when they might sift
This hidden whim ; and long they watched 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.
THE POT OF BASIL, 22

Lx,

Yet they contrived 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,

nd so left Florence in a moment’s space,
Never to turn again. Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banishment.

LXI,

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

LXII,
Piteous she looked 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.”

LXIII,

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.
922 ISABELLA, OR, THE POT OF BASIL.

nd a sad ditty of this story borne

From mouth to mouth through all the country passed :
Still is the burden sung—“ O cruelty, ,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me !”

 
225

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES,

L

Str. Acnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was !

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; *

The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold :

Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.

I.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees :
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails :
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy heods and mails.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door,

And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ;

But no—already had his death-bell rung ;

The joys of all his life were said and sung:
922 THE EVE OF ST, AGNES,

_-~ His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.

Iv.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ;
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests :
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

v.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new stuffed in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and winged St. Agnes’ saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

VI.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honeyed middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright ;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
22

THE EVE OF ST, AGNES. 225

VII.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retired; not cooled by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere :
She sighed for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.

VIII.
She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short :
The hallowed hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ;
’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy: all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

Ix,
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
F, ine. Beside the portal doors,
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in svoth such things
have been.
xX
He ventures in: let no buzzed whisper tell :

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords ‘0
226

THE EVE OF ST, AGNES.

Will storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel :
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,

Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

XI.
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland :
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face,
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, “‘ Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ;

They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race !

XII
“ Get hence! get hence ! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand ;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his grey hairs—Alas me! flit!
Flit like a ghost away.”—“ Ah, gossip dear,
We're safe enough ; here in this armchair sit,
And tell me how”—“ Good Saints ! not here, not here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.”

XU.
He followed through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
And as she muttered, “ Well-a—well-a-day !"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
THE EVE OF ST, AGNES, 227

“Now tell me where is Madeline,” said he,

*O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom

Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.”

XIV.
“St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve—
Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve,
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro !—St. Agnes’ Eve!
God’s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive !
But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.”

XV.
Feebly she laughéd in the languid moon,

While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone

Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book,

As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook.

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told

His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

XVI.
Sudden athought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
“ A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.”
228

THE EVE OF ST, AGNES.

XVIL
“J will not harm her, by all saints I swear,”
Quoth Porphyro: “ O may I ne’er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face ;
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ;
Or I will, even in a moment’s space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears,

And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolve

and bears.”
XVIII.

“ Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ?

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never missed.” Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ;

So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,

That Angela gives promise she will do

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

XIX,
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

XX,
“Tt shall be as thou wishest,” said the Dame:
“ All cates and dainties shall be stored there
THE EVE OF ST, AGNES, 229

Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour-frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
Qn such a catering trust my dizzy head,
Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.”

XXI.

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover’s endless minutes slowly passed ;
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast

From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain

The maiden’s chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ;

Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

XXII.

Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed maid,
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware :
With silver taper’s light, and pious care,
She turned, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ;
She comes, she comes again, like ringdove frayed and fled.

XXIII.

Out went the taper as she hurried in ;

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin.
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
230

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide !

But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side ;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

XXIV.
A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imag’ries .

f fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
‘And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damasked wings ;
And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

XXV.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon ;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,

Save wings, for heaven :—Porphyre-srew-faint :

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint,
See ce DIRS WINE, BO Eee Ane anoulal feet,

XXVI.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
OF all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ‘
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Halfhidden, like a mermaid in seaweed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
THE EVE OF ST, AGNES, 231

XXVIL
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ;
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ;
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breathed himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,
And ’tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! how fast she slept.

XXIX.
Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet !
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettledram, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

XXX.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and Javendered,
232

THE EVE OF ST, AGNES,

While he forth from the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ;

Manna and dates, in argosy transferred

From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.

XXXI.

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright

‘Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

In the retired quiet of the night,

Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
“ And now, my love, my seraph fair awake !
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite :
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake,

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache,”

XXXII.

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains :—’twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:

It seemed he never, never could redeem

From such a steadfast spell his lady’s eyes ;.

So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed fantasies,

XXXIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute—
Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute,

In Provence called, “La belle dame sans mercy :”
THE EVE OF ST, AGNES, 233

Close to her ear touching the melody ;
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan:
He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: ~
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

XXXIV,

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

There was a painful change, that nigh expelled

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep

At which fair Madeline began to weep,

And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;

While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ;

Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly.

XXXV.
‘“‘ Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “ but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear :
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear !
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear !
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go!”

XXXVL
Beyond a mortal man impassioned far
At these voluptuous accents, he rose,
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star
Seen ’mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose ;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.
234

THE EVE OF ST, AGNES.

XXXVIL
'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
“ This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline !”
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
“No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine,
Gaal qian ealine cout thee Mitte Benge
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
- Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ;

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.”

XXXVIIL
“‘ My Madeline! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride !
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ?
Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famished pilgrim,—saved by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well

‘To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel,

XXXIX.

“ Hark ! ’tis an elfin-storm from fairy land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed :
Arise—arise! the morning is at hand ;
The bloated wassaillers will never heed:
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ;
There are no ears to ear, or eyes to see,—
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead :
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,

For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”

XL,

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 235

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar ;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

XLI.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they-gtide ;.
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side :
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns :
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ;

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

XLIL

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ,
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,

For aye unsought-for slept amongst his ashes cold.

 

Notr.—‘‘ St. Agnes’ Eve was kept by our ancestors, much as Hallowe’en
was by the Scots, as a period of divination, or seeking a knowledge of futurity.
After fasting the whole day, upon going to bed an egg was filled with salt and
eaten, which occasioned a great thirst. The vessel the maiden dreamed of
drinking from signified, according to situation and circumstances, who would
be her husband.” —Hone’s Z£veryday Book,
HYPERION,

A FRAGMENT.

 

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION
OF THIS POEM.

IF any apology be thought necessary for the appearance of the
unfinished poem of “ Hypczion,” the publishers beg to state that
they alone are responsible, as it was printed at their particular
request, and contrary to the wish of the author. The poem was
jutended to have been of equal length with “Endymton—but—
reception given to that work discouraged m

proceeding.

Fleet Street, June 26, 1820.

BOOK I.

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
// Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,

Sat grey-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone,

Still as the silence round about his lair ;

Forest on forest hung about his head

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,

Not so much life as on a summer’s day

Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass,

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
HYPERION. 237

By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad ’mid her reeds
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips.

Along the margin-sand large footmarks went,
No further than to where his feet had strayed,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ;
While his bowed head seemed list’ning to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

It seemed no force could wake him from his place ;
But there came one, who with a kindred hand
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world ;

By her in stature the tall Amazon

Had stood a pigmy’s height: she would have ta’en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ;

Or with a finger stayed Ixion’s wheel.

Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
Pedestalled haply in a palace court,

When sages looked to Egypt for their lore.

But oh! how unlike marble was that face !

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made

Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self !

There was a listening fear in her regard,

As if calamity had but begun ;

As if the vanward clouds of evil days

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear

Was with its stored thunder labouring up.

One hand she pressed upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:

The other upon Saturn’s bended neck
238

AIYPERION.,

She laid, and to the level of his ear

Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenour and deep organ tone:

Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in these like accents—O how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!

“ Saturn, look up !—though wherefore, poor old King?
I have no comfort for thee, no, not one:

I cannot say, ‘O wherefore sleepest thou ?’

For heaven is parted from thee,* and the earth
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ;

And ocean, too, with all its solemn noise,

Has from thy sceptre passed ; and all the air

Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.

Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
Rumbles reluctant o’er our fallen house ;

And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands
Scorches and burns our once serene domain.

O aching time! O moments big as years !

All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
And press it so upon our weary griefs

That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
Saturn, sleep on :—O thoughtless, why did I
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ?

Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep!

As when, upon a trancéd summer night,
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charméd by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ;

* By the rebellion of his sons, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto,

 
HYPERION. 239

So came these words and went; the while in tears
She touched her fair large forehead to the ground,
Just where her falling hair might be outspread

A soft and silken mat for Saturn’s feet.

One moon, with alteration slow, had shed

Her silver seasons four upon the night,

And still these two were postured motionless,
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ;

The frozen God still couchant on the earth,

And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet :

Until at length old Saturn lifted up .

His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,

And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,

And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake,
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady :

“O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,*

Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;

Look up, and let me see our doom in it:

Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape

Is Saturn’s; tell me, if thou hear’st the voice

Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,

Naked and bare of its great diadem,

Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power
To make me-desolate? whence came the strength ?
How was it nurtured to such bursting forth,
While Fate seemed strangled in my nervous grasp ?

” Aapeten eee e e e children of Earth and Heaven
sprung from Chaos. They are spoken of as the elder gods. The names of
the chief of them were, Oceanus, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Ophion, males ; and

Themis, Mnemosyne, and Eurymone, females. Hyperion was the original
sun-god, and was represented with a more glorious beauty than that of Apollo,

who succeeded him. Of the Titans, Ophion and Eurymone reigned on
Olympus, till_they were dethrone aturn and Cybete. i ;

cm

 

“¢ And fabled how the serpent, whom they called
Ophion, with Eurymone (the wide 1
Encroaching Eve, perhaps, ) had first the rule \
Of high Olympus—thence by Saturn driven.”
240

HYVPERION.

But it is so; and I am smothered up,

And buried from all godlike exercise

Of influence benign on planets pale,

Of admonitions to the winds and seas,

Of peaceful sway above man’s harvesting,

And all those acts which Deity supreme

Doth ease its heart of love in. I am gone
Away from my own bosom: I have left

My strong identity, my real self,

Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search !
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round:
Upon all space : space starred, and lorn of light ;
Space regioned with life-air ; and barren void ;
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.

Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
A certain shape or shadow, making way

With wings or chariot fierce to repossess

A heaven he lost erewhile ; it must—it must

Be of ripe progress—Saturn must be Kin

Yes, there must be a golden victory ; a
There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival

Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,

Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir

Of strings in hollow shells ; arid there shall be
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise

Of the sky-children ; I will give command :

Thea ! Thea ! Thea! where is Saturn ?”

This passion lifted him upon his feet,
And made his hands to struggle in the air,
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease,
He stood, and heard not Thea’s sobbing deep ;
A little time, and then again he snatched
HIVPERION. 241

Utterance thus : “‘ But cannot I create?
Cannot I form? Cannot
ni f i Ses

To over le this to naught ?
Where-is-another chaos? Where >”—That word

Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
The rebel three.*—Thea was startled up,

And in her bearing was a sort of hope,

As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe :

“‘ This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends,
O Saturn! come away, and give them heart ;
I know the covert, for thence came I hither.”
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
With backward footing through the shade a space:
” He followed, and she turned to lead the way
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe :
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
Groaned for the old allegiance once more, |
And listened in sharp pain for Saturn’s voice.

ut one of the W: oth-brood still kept
His sov’reignty, and rule, and majesty ;
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sat, still snuffed the incense, teeming up
From man to the sun’s God ; yet unsecure :
For as among us mortals omens drear
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he—
Not at dog’s howl, or gloom-bird’s hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one

 

* Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto, a
242

HYPERION.,

Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,

Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ;

But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve,

Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright
Bastioned with pyramids of glowing gold,

And touched with shade of bronzéd obelisks,
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ;

And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds.

Flushed angerly : while sometimes eagle’s wings,
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
Darkened the place ; and neighing steeds were heard,
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths

Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took

Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick :

And so, when harboured in the sleepy west,
After the full completion of fair day,—

For rest divine upon exalted couch

And slumber in the arms of melody,

He paced away the pleasant hours of ease

With stride colossal, on from hall to hall; ~
While far within each aisle and deep recess,

His winged minions in close clusters stood,
Amazed and full of fear; like anxious men

Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers,
Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance,
Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,

Came slope upon the threshold of the west;
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope

In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,’
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
And wandering sounds, slow-breathen melodies ;
HYPERION. 243

And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
That inlet to severe magnificence

Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.

He entered, but he entered full of wrath ;
His flaming robes streamed out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared,
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
Until he reached the great main cupola ;
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
And from the basements deep to the high towers
Jarred his own golden region ; and before
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased,
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
To this result: “O dreams of day and night !
O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain !
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!
O lank-eared Phantoms of black-weeded pools!
Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why
Is my eternal essence thus distraught
To see and to behold these horrors new ?
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?
aa eee Ss
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
Of all my lucent empire? It is left
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
The blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry,
I cannot see—but darkness, death and darkness.
Even here, into my centre of repose,
244

HYPERION.

The shady visions come to domineer,

Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.

Fall !—No, by Tellus and her briny robes !

Over the fiery frontier of my realms

I will advance a terrible right arm
Shall scare that_infant thunderer, rebel Jove
And bid old Saturn take his throne again.”

He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat
Held struggle with his throat but came not forth ;
For as in theatres of crowded men

Hubbub increases more they call out “ Hush !”
So at Hyperion’s words the Phantoms pale
Bestired themselves, thrice horrible and cold -
And from the mirrored level where he stood

A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.

At this, through all his bulk an agony

Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crdwn,
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular

Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed
From over-strainéd might. Released, he fled

T ull si s
Before the dawn in season due should blush,
He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
Cleared them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
Suddenly on the ocean’s chilly streams.

The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode

Each day from east to west the heavens through,
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ;

Not therefore veiléd quite, blindfold, and hid,
But ever and anon the glancing spheres,

Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
Glowed through, and wrought upon the muffling dark
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep

Up to the zenith,—hieroglyphics old,

Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers

Then living on the earth, with labouring thought
HYPERION. 248

Won from the gaze of many centuries :

Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone,
Their wisdom long since fled. Two wings this ork
Possessed for glory, two fair argent wings,

Ever exalted at the God’s approach :

And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ;
While still the dazzling globe maintained eclipse,
Awaiting for Hyperion’s command.

Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
And bid the day begin, if but for change.

He might not :—No, though a primeval God :
The sacred seasons might not be disturbed.
‘Therefore the operations of the dawn

Stayed in their birth, even as here ’tis told.
Those silver wings expanded sisterly,

Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide
Opened upon the dusk demesnes of night ;

And the bright Titan, frenzied with new woes
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent

His spirit to the sorrow of the time;

And all along a dismal rack of clouds,

Upon the boundaries of day and night,

He stretched himself in grief and radiance faint.
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
Looked down on him with pity, and the voice
Of Ccelus, from the universal space,

Thus whispered low and solemn in his ear :

“© brightest of my children dear, earth-born
And sky-engendered, Son of Mysteries

All unrevealed even to the powers

Which met at thy creating ; at whose joys

And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,

I, Coelus, wonder how they came and whence ;
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,

 
246

HYPERION

Distinct and visible ; symbols divine,
Manifestations of that beauteous life

Diffused unseen throughout eternal space :

Of these new-formed art thou, oh, brightest child!
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses !

There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion

Of son against his sire. saw him fall

sear ie sana a from his throne !

To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
Found way from forth the thunders round his head !
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.

Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear there is:
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.

Divine ye were created, and divine

In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturbed,
Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled :
Actions of rege and Passos even 3s

I them, on the mortal world beneath

Sad sign of ruin, stdden dismay, and fall!

Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable,

As thou canst move about, an evident God ;
And canst oppose to each malignant hour
Ethereal presence :—I am but a voice ;

My life is but the life of winds and tides,

No more than winds and tides can I avail :
But thou canst. Be thou therefore in the van
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow’s barb
Before the tense string murmur.—To the earth !
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes.
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun,

And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.”
Ere half this region-whisper had come down,

 

* Saturn.
HVPERION. 247

Hyperion arose, and on the stars
ted hik curved lids, and kept them wide

Until it chased ; and still he kept them wide:
And still Ahey were the same bright, patient stars.

Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
Likeo a diver in the pearly seas,

Forward he stooped over the airy shore,

And plunged all noiseless into the deep night.

  

 

BOOK II.

Jusr at the self-same beat of Time’s wide wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,

And Saturn gained with Thea that sad place
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourned.
It was a den where no insulting light

Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar

Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.

Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seemed
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,

Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ;
And thus in thousand hugest fantasies

Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.

Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborned with iron. All were not assembled :
Some chained in torture, and some wandering.
Cceus, and Gyges, and Briareiis,

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,

With many more, the brawniest in assault,

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ;
Dungeoned in opaque element, to keep

Their clenched teeth still clenched, and all their limbs
248

AYPERION.

Locked up like veins of metal, crampt and screwed ;
Without a motion, save of their big hearts
Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed

With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ;

Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered ;
And many else were free to roam abroad,

But for the main, here found they covert drear.
Scarce images of life, one here, one there,

Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor,

When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,

In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night.
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave
Or word, or look, or action of despair.

Creiis was one; his ponderous iron mace

Lay by him, and a shattered rib of rock

Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined.
Tapetus another ; in his grasp,

A serpent’s plashy neck ; its barbed tongue
Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurled length
Dead ; and because the creature could not spit
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove.
Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin uppermost,
As thougli in pain ; for still upon the flint

He ground severe his skull, with open mouth
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him
Asia, born of most enormous Caf,

Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
Though feminine, than any of her sons:

More thought than woe was in her dusky face,
For she was prophesying of her glory ;

And in her wide imagination stood
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes,

By Oxus or in Ganges’ sacred isles.
HYPERION. 249

Even as Hope upon her anchor leans,

So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk

Shed from the broadest of her elephants.

Above her, on a crag’s uneasy shelve,

Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else,
Shadowed Enceladus; once tame and mild

As grazing ox unworried in the meads ;

Now tiger-passioned, lion-thoughted, wroth,

He meditated, plotted, and even now

. Was hurling mountains in that second war,

Not long delayed, that scared the younger Gods
To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird.
Not far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighboured close
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap

Sobbed Clymene among her tangled hair.

In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet

Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ;
No shape distinguishable, more than when
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds:
And many else whose names may not be told.
For when the Muse’s wings are air-ward spread,
Who shall delay her flight? And she must chant
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climbed
With damp and slippery footing from a depth
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff

Their heads appeared, and up their stature grew
Till on the level height their steps found ease :
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain,

And sidelong fixed her eye on Saturn’s face :
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God
At war with all the frailty of grief,

Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,

Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.
Against these plagues he strove in vain ; for Fate
250

HYPERION.

Had poured a mortal oil upon his head,
A disanointing poison: so that Thea,
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe.

As with us mortal men, the laden heart
Is persecuted more, and fevered more,
When it is nighing to the mournful house
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 2
So Saturn, as he walked into the midst,
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest,
But that he met Enceladus’s eye,
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once
Came like an mispuneHion j and he shouted—
pat ” at which some aie

 
 

ome wept, some wailed, ail bowed with veverenee §
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil,

Showed her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan,
Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow eyes.

There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines

When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise
Among immortals when a God gives sign,

With hushing finger, how he means to load

His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought,
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp:
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ;
Which, when it ceases in this mountained world,
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here,
Among these fallen, Saturn’s voice therefrom

Grew up like organ, that begins anew

Its strain, whén other harmonies, stopt short,
Leave the dinned air vibrating silverly.

Thus grew it up: “ Not in my own sad breast,
Which is its own great judge and searcher out,
HYPERION. 25%

Can I find reason why ye should be thus:

Not in the legends of the first of days,

Studied from that old spirit-leaved book

Which starry Uranus with finger bright
Saved from the shores of darkness, when the waves
Low-ebbed still hid it up in shallow gloom ;

And the which book ye know I ever kept

For my firm-baséd footstool :—Ah, infirm !

Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent

Of element, earth, water, air, and fire,—

At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling

One against one, or two, or three, or all

Each several one against the other three,

As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods
Drown both, and press them both against earth’s face,
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath
Unhinges the poor world ;—not in that strife,
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep,
Can I find reason why ye should be thus:

No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search,

And pore on Nature’s universal scroll

Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities,

The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods,
Should cower beneath what, in comparison,

Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here,
O’erwhelmed, and spurned, and battered, ye are here !
O Titans, shall I say ‘ Arise ?—Ye groan :

Shall I say ‘Crouch !’—Ye groan. What can I then?
O Heaven wide! O unseen parent dear !

What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods,

How we can war, how engine our great wrath!

O speak your counsel now, for Saturn’s ear

Is all a-hungered. Thou, Oceanus,

Ponderest high and deep; and in thy face

I see, astonied, that severe content

Which comes of thought and musing: give us help !”
252

AYPERION.

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove,
But cogitation in his watery shades,
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began,
In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue
Caught infant-like from the far-foaméd sands:
“O ye, whom wrath consumes! who, passion-stung,
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies !
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears,
My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop:
And in the proof much comfort will I give,
If ye will take that comfort in its truth.
We fall by course of Nature’s law, not force
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ;
But for this reason, that thou art the King,
And only blind from sheer supremacy,
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes,
Through which I wandered to eternal truth.
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers,
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be:
Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
From chaos and parental darkness came
Light, the first-fruits of that intestine broil,
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came,
And with it light, and light, engendering
Upon its own producer, forthwith touched
The whole enormous matter into life.
Upon that very hour, our parentage,
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest :
Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race,
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms,
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom ’tis pain ;
fIVPERION. 253

O folly ! for to bear all naked truths,
And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well!
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once cliefs ;
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth ,
In form and shape compact and beautiful,
In will, in action free, companionship,
And thousand other signs of purer life ;
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
_A power more strong in beauty. born of-us
And fated to
In glory that old Darkness : nor are we
Thereby more conquered, tiem by us the rule
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
And feedeth still, more comely than itself?
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ?
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings
To wander wherewithal and find its joys?
We are = nd_our fair boughs
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
But eagles golden-feathered, who do towey

Above us in their_ beauty, and must reign,

In ri ; for ’tis the eternal law
‘That first in beauty should be first in might ;
Yea, by that law, another race mgy drive
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas,*
My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face?
Have ye beheld his chariot, foamed along
By noble wingéd creatures he hath made?

I saw him on the calméd waters scud,

 

* Neptune.
254

HVPERION.

With such a glow of beauty in his eyes,

That it enforced me to bid sad farewell

To all my empire: farewell sad I took,

And hither came, to see how dolorous fate
Had wrought upon ye; and how I might best
Give consolation inthis woe extreme.
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.”

‘Whether through pozed conviction, or disdain,
They guarded silence, when Oceanus
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell P
But so it was, none answered for a space,
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene ;
And yet she answered not, only complained,
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild,
Thus wording timidly among ‘the fierce :
“O Father, I am here the simplest voice,
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts,
There to remain for ever, as I fear:
I would not bode of evil, if I thought

-So weak a creature could turn off the help

Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ;
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell

Of what I heard, and how it made me weep,
And know that we had parted from all hope.
I-stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore,

Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land
Of fragrance, qui€tness, and trees, and flowers.
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief;

Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ;

So that I felt a movement in my heart

To chide, and to reproach that solitude

With songs of misery, music of our woes ;
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell
And murmured into it, and made melody—
AYPERION. 255

O melody no more ! for while I sang,

And with poor skill let pass into the breeze

The dull shell’s echo, from a bowery strand
Just opposite, an island of the sea,

There came enchantment with the shifting wind,
That did both drown and keep alive my ears,

I threw my shell away upon the sand,

And a wave filled it, as my sense was filled
With that new blissful golden melody.

A living death was in each gush of sounds,
Each family of rapturous hurried notes,

That fell, one after one, yet all at once,

Like pearl-beads dropping sudden from their string.
And then another, then another strain,

Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,

With music winged instead of silent plumes,

To hover round my head, and make me sick
Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame,

And I was stopping up my frantic ears,

When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands,
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,
And still it cried, ‘ Apollo! young Apollo!

The morning-bright Apollo: young Apollo?

I fled, it followed me, and cried ‘ Apollo!’

O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt

Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst thou felt,
Ye would not call this too indulged tongue
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard.”

So far her voice flowed on, like timorous brook
That, lingering along a pebbled coast,
Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met,
And shuddered ; for the overwhelming voice
Of huge Enceladus swallowed it in wrath :
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks,
256

HYPERION.

Came booming thus, while still upon his arm
He leaned ; not rising, from supreme contempt :
“Or shall we listen to the over-wise,

Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ?

Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all

That rebel Jove’s whole armoury were spent,
Not world on world upon these shoulders piled,
Could agonize me more than baby-words

In midst of this dethronement horrible.

Speak ! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all.
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ?

Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ?

Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves,
Thy scalding in the seas? What, have I roused
Your spleens with so few simple words as these ?
O joy! for now I see ye are not lost;

O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes

Wide glaring for revenge !”—As this he said,
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood, —-
Still without intermission speaking thus :

“ Now ye are flames, I’ll tell you how to burn,
And purge the ether of our enemies ;

How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire,
And singe away the swollen clouds of Tove,
Stifling that puny essence in its tent.

O let him feel the evil he hath done ;

For though I scorn Oceanus’s lore,

Much pain have I for more than loss of realms:
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ;
Those days, all innocent of scathing war,

When all the fair Existences of heaven

Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak :
That was before our brows were taught to frown,
Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ;
That was before we knew the winged thing,
Victory, might be lost, or might be won.
HYPERION. 257

And be ye mindful that Hyperion,

Our brightest brother, still is undiserac
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here !”
—_—_———— ————

All eyes were on Enceladus’s face,
And they beheld, while still Hyperion’s name
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,
A pallid gleam across his features stern:
Not savage, for he saw full many a God
Wroth as himself. He looked upon them all,
‘And in each face he saw a gleam of light,
But splendider in Saturn’s, whose hoar locks
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove.
In pale and silver silence they remained,
Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn,
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps,
All the sad spaces of oblivion,
And every gulf, and every chasm old,
And every height, and every sullen depth,
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams:
And all the everlasting cataracts,
And all the headlong torrents far and near,
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade,
Now saw the light and made it terrible.
It was Hyperion :—a granite peak
His bright feet touched, and there he stayed to view
The misery his brilliance had betrayed
To the most hateful seeing of itself.
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk
Of Memnon’s image at the set of sun
To one who travels from the dusking East :
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon’s harp

He uttered, while his hands contemplative
17
258

HYPERION.

He pressed together, and in silence stood.
Despondence seized again the fallen Gods

At sight of the dejected King of Day,

And many hid their faces from the light:

But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare,
Uprose Iapetus, and Creiis too,

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode

To where he towered on his eminence.

There those four shouted forth old Saturn’s name ;
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, “ Saturn !”
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,

In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods
Gave from their hollow throats the name of “ Saturn!”

BOOK III.

Tuus in alternate uproar and sad peace
Amazed were those Titans utterly.

O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes ;
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire;
A solitary sorrow best befits

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.

Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find
Many a fallen old Divinity

Wandering in vain about bewildered shores,
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
And not a wind of heaven but will breathe

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ;

For lo! ’tis for the Father of all verse.

Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue,

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air,
And let the clouds of even and of morn

Float in voluptuous fleeces o’er the hills ;
AIVYPERION. 259

Let the red wine within the goblet boil,

Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipped shells,
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn
Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised.
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech,
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song,
And hazels thick, dark-stemmed beneath the shade:
Apollo is once more the golden theme!

Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers?
"Together had he left his mother fair

And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,

And in the morning twilight wandered forth
Beside the osiers of a rivulet,

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.

The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars
Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle
There was no covert, no retired cave
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.
He listened, and he wept, and his bright tears
Went trickling down the golden bow he held.
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by
With solemn step an awful Goddess came,

And there was purport in her looks for him,
Which he with eager guess began to read
Perplexed, the while melodiously he said :

“ How cam’st thou over the unfooted sea?

Or hath that antique mien and robed form
Moved in these vales invisible till now?

Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o’er
260

HYPERION.

The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone
In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced
The rustle of those ample skirts about
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper passed.
Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before,
And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dreamed.”—“ Yes,” said the supreme shape,
“ Thou hast dreamed of me; and awaking up
Didst find a Tyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touched by thy fingers, all the vast
Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listened in pain and pleasure at the birth

Is’t not strange
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth,
What sorrow thou canst feel: for I am sad
When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs
To one who in this lonely isle hath been
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life,
From the young day when first thy infant hand
Plucked witless the weak flowers, till thine arm
Could bend that bew heroic to all times.
Show thy heart’s secret to an ancient Power
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
Of loveliness new born.”—Apollo then,
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answered, while his white melodious throat
Throbbed with the syllables: “ Mnemosyne!
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ?
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips
Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ;
HYPERION. 261

And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,

Like one who once had wings. O why should I
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air
Yields to my step aspirant? why should I

Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ?
Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing:
Are there not other regions than this isle?

What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun!
And the most patient brilliance of the moon!
And stars by thousands! Point me out the way
To any one particular beauteous star,

And I will flit into it with my lyre,

And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss.

I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power?
Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
Makes this alarum in the elements,

While I here idle listen on the shores

In fearless yet in aching ignorance ?

O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp,

That waileth every morn and eventide,

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves !
Mute thou remainest—Mute ! yet I can read

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face :

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
Names, } deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions,
Majesties, sovran Voices, agonies,

Creations and destroyings, all at once |

Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,*

And deify me, as if some blithe wine

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,

And so become immortal.”—Thus the God,
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.

 

 

* Mnemosyne was the goddess of memory.
262

HYPERION.

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush
All the immortal fairness of his limbs ;

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ;
Or liker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang

As hot as death’s is chill, with fierce convulse
Die into life: so young Apollo anguished :
His very hair, his golden tresses famed

Kept undulation round his eager neck.
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld

Her arms as one who prophesied.—At length
Apollo shrieked ;—and lo! from all his limbs
Celestial * * * * i *

* & * % % % & %

 
Poems.

 

ODE TO A,NIGHTING

 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlpck I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate tq the drains

One minute past, and Lethe}wards had sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy h&ppy lot,

But being too happy i in thyne happiness,—

_In some ied
Of beechen green, and shadows sium bedless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

t pt: ice. It.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth,
O for a.beaker_full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainéd mouth ;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

. _And with thee fade away into the forest dim: me

Il.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
264 POEMS.

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where ‘Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

IV.
Away ! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards.
Already with thee! tender is the night, ~~
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezeg/1 lo
Through verdurous glooms and winding) mossy ways. ,

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;_
—White hawthom, and the > pastoral e églantine; 5
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves ;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

VI.
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath ;

Now more than everGeemy it_xich to die,
POEMS. 265

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

VIr.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee; d down ;
The voice I hear this Gassing MPR W: (passing nighD was heed
In ancient days by emperor and clown: Asaeetel.
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

VIII.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side ; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :

pe ara
Fled is that music :—Do I wake or sleep ?
——— —$—— na
266

POEMS,

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

1.
Tuov still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth ?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape ?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild_ecstasv ?.

IL
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes play on ;
Not to the sensual ear, el more oe. ra
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve ;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
TIL.

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed -
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu ;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new
More happy love! more happy, happy love !
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young ;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
POEMS, 267

IV.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Leadest thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

v.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity; Celd Basser !
When old age shall this-generation waste,

Thow shalt remain, in midst 0

=

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayest,
““ Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

ODE TO PSYCHE.

O Goppess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The wingéd Psyche with awakened eyes ?

I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
268

POEMS.

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied’:

’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,

They lay calm-breathing on the budded grass ;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,

As if disjointed by soft-handed slumber,

And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love :

The wingéd buy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true !

O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy !
Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-regioned star,
Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky ;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers ;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours ;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming ;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest ! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ;

Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
POEMS. 269

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours ;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingéd censer teeming ;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchéd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees,
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep ;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same ;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!

———

FANCY.

Ever let the Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ;

Then let winged Fancy wander

Through the thought still spread beyond her:
270

POEMS,

Open wide the mind’s cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward scaz.
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,
‘And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming ;
Autumn’s red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting : What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when

The sear faggot blazes bright,

Spirit of a winter’s night ;

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon ;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,

Fancy, high-commissioned :—send her {
She has vassals to attend her:

She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost ;
She will bring thee, all together,

All delights of summer weather ;

All the buds and bells of May,

From dewy sward or thorny spray ;
All the heaped Autumn’s wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth :

She will mix these pleasures up

Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it :—thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear ;

Rustle of the reapéd corn ;

Sweet birds antheming the mom:
POEMS, aqt

And, in the same moment—hark !
’Tis the early April lark,

Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw :
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold ;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ;
Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with. the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre. from its celléd sleep ;

And the snake all winter-thin

Cast on sunny bank its skin ;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest ;

Then the hurry and alarm

When the beehive casts its swarm ;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,

While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ;
Everything is spoilt by use:
Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where’s the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where’s the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where’s the face
One would meet in every place?
Where’s the voice, however soft
One would hear so very oft ?
272

POEMS,

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find

Thee a mistress to thy mind :
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide ;
With a waist and with a side

White as Hebe’s, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,

While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh
Of the Fancy’s silken leash ;
Quickly break her prison-string,
And such joys as these she'll bring,
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

ODE.

Barbs of Passion and of Mirth,

Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?

Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thund’rous ;
With the whisper of heaven’s trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns

Browsed by none but Dian’s fawns ;
POEMS, 273

Underneath iarge bluebells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not ;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
But divine melodious truth ;
Philosophic numbers smooth ;
Tales and golden histories

Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumbered, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week ;
Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites ;
Of their glory and their shame ;
What doth strengthen and what maim,
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!

18
274 POEMS.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.*

Souts 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
Would, with his maid Marian,

Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s signboard 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?

 

* The place frequented by Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, and the poets of the
Elizabethan age,
POEMS, 275

ROBIN HOOD.
TO A FRIEND.

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and grey,
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,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed 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 ;
276

POEMS.

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 “‘grené shawe ;”
All are gone away and past !
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turféd 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 bowstring !
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.

—_—
POEMS 277

TO AUTUMN.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.

II.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store P
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers : .
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,

III.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And.touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
278 POEMS,

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hillv bourn ;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

ODE ON MELANCHOLY.

I.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine 3
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

II.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globéd peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
POEMS, 279

Il.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY.*

Au! what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering ?

The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

 

* This poem appeared originally in the Zzdicator, and was thus praised by
Leigh Hunt :—‘*‘ The union of the imaginative and the real is very striking
throughout, particularly in the dream. The wild gentleness of the rest of the
thoughts and of the music are alike old, and they are also alike young ; for
love and imagination are always young, let them bring with them what times
and accompaniments they may.” The verses were suggested to Keats, Leigh
Hunt tells us, by an old poem bearing the title of ‘‘ La Belle Dame Sans
Mercy,” which is to be found in Chaucer’s works ; and it is a translation (attri-
buted to him) from the celebrated French poet Alain Chartier, secretary to
Charles the Sixth and Seventh. The present poem was signed at its original
publication Caviare, in allusion doubtless to Hamlet’s words, which have
become proverbial. Keats’ poems then were actually ‘‘ Caviare to the mul-
titude,” but the ‘‘whirligig of time” has ‘brought its revenges.”
280

POEMS,

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew ;
And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a fairy’s child ;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long ;
For sideways would she lean and sing
A fairy’s song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ;
She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wiid, and manna-dew ;
And sure in language strange she said,

I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighéd deep ;
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—

So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed,
On the cold hill-side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors—death-pale were they all ;
Who cried, “ La Belle Dame Sans Mercy
Hath thee in thrall !”
POEMS, 281

I saw their starved lips in the gloom,
With horrid warning gapéd wide ;

And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill-side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering :

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

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