6 ENDYMION.
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o warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ;Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the iOf nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold,To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, witli joyful cries, tliere spedA troop of little children garlanded ;Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of hoUday : nor liad they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which even thenFilPd out its voice, and died away again.Within a little space again it gaveIts airy swellings, with a gentle wave.To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breakingThrough copse-clad valleys, — ere their death, o*ertaldngThe surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as weMight mark a lynxes eye, there glimmer'd lightFair faces and a rush of garments wliite.Plainer and plainer showmg, till at lastInto the widest alley they fdl past,Making directly for the woodland altar.O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue falterIn telling of this goodly company,Of then* old piety, and of their glee :But let a portion of ethereal dewFall on my head, and presently unmewMy soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring,To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. Leading the way, young damsels danced along.Bearing the burden of a shepherd's song ;Each having a white wicker, overbrimmedWith April's tender younglings : next, well trunm*di
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