Endymion: Book I
Lines:998Movement:Romanticism
ENDYMION. A Poetic Romance. "THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG."INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Book I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathingA flowery band to bind us to the earth,Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearthOf noble natures, of the gloomy days,Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened waysMade for our searching: yes, in spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boonFor simple sheep; and such are daffodilsWith the green world they live in; and clear rillsThat for themselves a cooling covert make'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:And such too is the grandeur of the doomsWe have imagined for the mighty dead;All lovely tales that we have heard or read:An endless fountain of immortal drink,Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essencesFor one short hour; no, even as the treesThat whisper round a temple become soonDear as the temple's self, so does the moon,The passion poesy, glories infinite,Haunt us till they become a cheering lightUnto our souls, and bound to us so fast,That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,They alway must be with us, or we die. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that IWill trace the story of Endymion.The very music of the name has goneInto my being, and each pleasant sceneIs growing fresh before me as the greenOf our own vallies: so I will beginNow while I cannot hear the city's din;Now while the early budders are just new,And run in mazes of the youngest hueAbout old forests; while the willow trailsIts delicate amber; and the dairy pailsBring home increase of milk. And, as the yearGrows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steerMy little boat, for many quiet hours,With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.Many and many a verse I hope to write,Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the beesHum about globes of clover and sweet peas,I must be near the middle of my story.O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,With universal tinge of sober gold,Be all about me when I make an end.And now at once, adventuresome, I sendMy herald thought into a wilderness:There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dressMy uncertain path with green, that I may speedEasily onward, thorough flowers and weed. Upon the sides of Latmos was outspreadA mighty forest; for the moist earth fedSo plenteously all weed-hidden rootsInto o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keepA lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,Never again saw he the happy pensWhither his brethren, bleating with content,Over the hills at every nightfall went.Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,That not one fleecy lamb which thus did severFrom the white flock, but pass'd unworriedBy angry wolf, or pard with prying head,Until it came to some unfooted plainsWhere fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gainsWho thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,And ivy banks; all leading pleasantlyTo a wide lawn, whence one could only seeStems thronging all around between the swellOf turf and slanting branches: who could tellThe freshness of the space of heaven above,Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a doveWould often beat its wings, and often tooA little cloud would move across the blue. Full in the middle of this pleasantnessThere stood a marble altar, with a tressOf flowers budded newly; and the dewHad taken fairy phantasies to strewDaisies upon the sacred sward last eve,And so the dawned light in pomp receive.For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fireMade every eastern cloud a silvery pyreOf brightness so unsullied, that thereinA melancholy spirit well might winOblivion, and melt out his essence fineInto the winds: rain-scented eglantineGave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;The lark was lost in him; cold springs had runTo warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;Man's voice was on the mountains; and the massOf nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, with joyful cries, there spedA troop of little children garlanded;Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of holiday: nor had they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which ev'n thenFill'd out its voice, and died away again.Within a little space again it gaveIts airy swellings, with a gentle wave,To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breakingThrough copse-clad vallies,--ere their death, oer-takingThe surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as weMight mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered lightFair faces and a rush of garments white,Plainer and plainer shewing, till at lastInto the widest alley they all past,Making directly for the woodland altar.O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulterIn telling of this goodly company,Of their old piety, and of their glee: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 song;Each having a white wicker over brimm'dWith April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looksAs may be read of in Arcadian books;Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,When the great deity, for earth too ripe,Let his divinity o'er-flowing dieIn music, through the vales of Thessaly:Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,And some kept up a shrilly mellow soundWith ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,Now coming from beneath the forest trees,A venerable priest full soberly,Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eyeStedfast upon the matted turf he kept,And after him his sacred vestments swept.From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;And in his left he held a basket fullOf all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter stillThan Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teethOf winter hoar. Then came another crowdOf shepherds, lifting in due time aloudTheir share of the ditty. After them appear'd,Up-followed by a multitude that rear'dTheir voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,Easily rolling so as scarce to marThe freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:Who stood therein did seem of great renownAmong the throng. His youth was fully blown,Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;And, for those simple times, his garments wereA chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,Was hung a silver bugle, and betweenHis nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,To common lookers on, like one who dream'dOf idleness in groves Elysian:But there were some who feelingly could scanA lurking trouble in his nether lip,And see that oftentimes the reins would slipThrough his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,Of logs piled solemnly.--Ah, well-a-day,Why should our young Endymion pine away! Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'dTo sudden veneration: women meekBeckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheekOf virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.Endymion too, without a forest peer,Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,Among his brothers of the mountain chase.In midst of all, the venerable priestEyed them with joy from greatest to the least,And, after lifting up his aged hands,Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:Whether descended from beneath the rocksThat overtop your mountains; whether comeFrom vallies where the pipe is never dumb;Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chargeNibble their fill at ocean's very marge,Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlornBy the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:Mothers and wives! who day by day prepareThe scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;And all ye gentle girls who foster upUdderless lambs, and in a little cupWill put choice honey for a favoured youth:Yea, every one attend! for in good truthOur vows are wanting to our great god Pan.Are not our lowing heifers sleeker thanNight-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plainsSpeckled with countless fleeces? Have not rainsGreen'd over April's lap? No howling sadSickens our fearful ewes; and we have hadGreat bounty from Endymion our lord.The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'dHis early song against yon breezy sky,That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spireOf teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sodWith wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.Now while the earth was drinking it, and whileBay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy lightSpread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang: "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hangFrom jagged trunks, and overshadowethEternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, deathOf unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dressTheir ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearkenThe dreary melody of bedded reeds--In desolate places, where dank moisture breedsThe pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;Bethinking thee, how melancholy lothThou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now,By thy love's milky brow!By all the trembling mazes that she ran,Hear us, great Pan! "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtlesPassion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,What time thou wanderest at eventideThrough sunny meadows, that outskirt the sideOf thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whomBroad leaved fig trees even now foredoomTheir ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted beesTheir golden honeycombs; our village leasTheir fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,To sing for thee; low creeping strawberriesTheir summer coolness; pent up butterfliesTheir freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding yearAll its completions--be quickly near,By every wind that nods the mountain pine,O forester divine! "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr fliesFor willing service; whether to surpriseThe squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;Or upward ragged precipices flitTo save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;Or by mysterious enticement drawBewildered shepherds to their path again;Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,And gather up all fancifullest shellsFor thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,The while they pelt each other on the crownWith silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown--By all the echoes that about thee ring,Hear us, O satyr king! "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,While ever and anon to his shorn peersA ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,That come a swooning over hollow grounds,And wither drearily on barren moors:Dread opener of the mysterious doorsLeading to universal knowledge--see,Great son of Dryope,The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows! Be still the unimaginable lodgeFor solitary thinkings; such as dodgeConception to the very bourne of heaven,Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,That spreading in this dull and clodded earthGives it a touch ethereal--a new birth:Be still a symbol of immensity;A firmament reflected in a sea;An element filling the space between;An unknown--but no more: we humbly screenWith uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,And giving out a shout most heaven rending,Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,Upon thy Mount Lycean! Even while they brought the burden to a close,A shout from the whole multitude arose,That lingered in the air like dying rollsOf abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoalsOf dolphins bob their noses through the brine.Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,Young companies nimbly began dancingTo the swift treble pipe, and humming string.Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenlyTo tunes forgotten--out of memory:Fair creatures! whose young children's children bredThermopylæ its heroes--not yet dead,But in old marbles ever beautiful.High genitors, unconscious did they cullTime's sweet first-fruits--they danc'd to weariness,And then in quiet circles did they pressThe hillock turf, and caught the latter endOf some strange history, potent to sendA young mind from its bodily tenement.Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intentOn either side; pitying the sad deathOf Hyacinthus, when the cruel breathOf Zephyr slew him,--Zephyr penitent,Who now, ere 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 raftBranch down sweeping from a tall ash top,Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelopeThose who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling kneeAnd frantic gape of lonely Niobe,Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely youngWere dead and gone, and her caressing tongueLay a lost thing upon her paly lip,And very, very deadliness did nipHer motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad moodBy one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,Uplifting his strong bow into the air,Many might after brighter visions stare:After the Argonauts, in blind amazeTossing about on Neptune's restless ways,Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,There shot a golden splendour far and wide,Spangling those million poutings of the brineWith quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shineFrom the exaltation of Apollo's bow;A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,Might turn their steps towards the sober ringWhere sat Endymion and the aged priest'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'dThe silvery setting of their mortal star.There they discours'd upon the fragile barThat keeps us from our homes ethereal;And what our duties there: to nightly callVesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;To summon all the downiest clouds togetherFor the sun's purple couch; to emulateIn ministring the potent rule of fateWith speed of fire-tailed exhalations;To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who consSweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,A world of other unguess'd offices.Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,Into Elysium; vieing to rehearseEach one his own anticipated bliss.One felt heart-certain that he could not missHis quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endowsHer lips with music for the welcoming.Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;And, ever after, through those regions beHis messenger, his little Mercury.Some were athirst in soul to see againTheir fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaignIn times long past; to sit with them, and talkOf all the chances in their earthly walk;Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous storesOf happiness, to when upon the moors,Benighted, close they huddled from the cold,And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-toldTheir fond imaginations,--saving himWhose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim,Endymion: yet hourly had he strivenTo hide the cankering venom, that had rivenHis fainting recollections. Now indeedHis senses had swoon'd off: he did not heedThe sudden silence, or the whispers low,Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms,Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms:But in the self-same fixed trance he kept,Like one who on the earth had never stept.Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man,Frozen in that old tale Arabian. Who whispers him so pantingly and close?Peona, his sweet sister: of all those,His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made,And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuadeA yielding up, a cradling on her care.Her eloquence did breathe away the curse:She led him, like some midnight spirit nurseOf happy changes in emphatic dreams,Along a path between two little streams,--Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow,From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slowFrom stumbling over stumps and hillocks small;Until they came to where these streamlets fall,With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush,Into a river, clear, brimful, and flushWith crystal mocking of the trees and sky.A little shallop, floating there hard by,Pointed its beak over the fringed bank;And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank,And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,--Peona guiding, through the water straight,Towards a bowery island opposite;Which gaining presently, she steered lightInto a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,Where nested was an arbour, overwoveBy many a summer's silent fingering;To whose cool bosom she was used to bringHer playmates, with their needle broidery,And minstrel memories of times gone by. So she was gently glad to see him laidUnder her favourite bower's quiet shade,On her own couch, new made of flower leaves,Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheavesWhen last the sun his autumn tresses shook,And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took.Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest:But, ere it crept upon him, he had prestPeona's busy hand against his lips,And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tipsIn tender pressure. And as a willow keepsA patient watch over the stream that creepsWindingly by it, so the quiet maidHeld her in peace: so that a whispering bladeOf grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustlingDown in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustlingAmong seer leaves and twigs, might all be heard. O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mindTill it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'dRestraint! imprisoned liberty! great keyTo golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,Echoing grottos, full of tumbling wavesAnd moonlight; aye, to all the mazy worldOf silvery enchantment!--who, upfurl'dBeneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,But renovates and lives?--Thus, in the bower,Endymion was calm'd to life again.Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain,He said: "I feel this thine endearing loveAll through my bosom: thou art as a doveTrembling its closed eyes and sleeked wingsAbout me; and the pearliest dew not bringsSuch morning incense from the fields of May,As do those brighter drops that twinkling strayFrom those kind eyes,--the very home and hauntOf sisterly affection. Can I wantAught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fearsThat, any longer, I will pass my daysAlone and sad. No, I will once more raiseMy voice upon the mountain-heights; once moreMake my horn parley from their foreheads hoar:Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall lollAround the breathed boar: again I'll pollThe fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow:And, when the pleasant sun is getting low,Again I'll linger in a sloping meadTo hear the speckled thrushes, and see feedOur idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet,And, if thy lute is here, softly intreatMy soul to keep in its resolved course." Hereat Peona, in their silver source,Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim,And took a lute, from which there pulsing cameA lively prelude, fashioning the wayIn which her voice should wander. 'Twas a layMore subtle cadenced, more forest wildThan Dryope's lone lulling of her child;And nothing since has floated in the airSo mournful strange. Surely some influence rareWent, spiritual, through the damsel's hand;For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'dThe quick invisible strings, even though she sawEndymion's spirit melt away and thawBefore the deep intoxication.But soon she came, with sudden burst, uponHer self-possession--swung the lute aside,And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hideThat thou dost know of things mysterious,Immortal, starry; such alone could thusWeigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aughtOffensive to the heavenly powers? CaughtA Paphian dove upon a message sent?Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent,Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seenHer naked limbs among the alders green;And that, alas! is death. No, I can traceSomething more high perplexing in thy face!" Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand,And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so blandAnd merry in our meadows? How is this?Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss!--Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the changeWrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange?Or more complete to overwhelm surmise?Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize,That toiling years would put within my grasp,That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gaspNo man e'er panted for a mortal love.So all have set my heavier grief aboveThese things which happen. Rightly have they done:I, who still saw the horizontal sunHeave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world,Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'dMy spear aloft, as signal for the chace--I, who, for very sport of heart, would raceWith my own steed from Araby; pluck downA vulture from his towery perching; frownA lion into growling, loth retire--To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire,And sink thus low! but I will ease my breastOf secret grief, here in this bowery nest. "This river does not see the naked sky,Till it begins to progress silverlyAround the western border of the wood,Whence, from a certain spot, its winding floodSeems at the distance like a crescent moon:And in that nook, the very pride of June,Had I been used to pass my weary eves;The rather for the sun unwilling leavesSo dear a picture of his sovereign power,And I could witness his most kingly hour,When he doth lighten up the golden reins,And paces leisurely down amber plainsHis snorting four. Now when his chariot lastIts beams against the zodiac-lion cast,There blossom'd suddenly a magic bedOf sacred ditamy, and poppies red:At which I wondered greatly, knowing wellThat but one night had wrought this flowery spell;And, sitting down close by, began to museWhat it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus,In passing here, his owlet pinions shook;Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptookHer ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth,Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealthCame not by common growth. Thus on I thought,Until my head was dizzy and distraught.Moreover, through the dancing poppies stoleA breeze, most softly lulling to my soul;And shaping visions all about my sightOf colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light;The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim:And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tellThe enchantment that afterwards befel?Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dreamThat never tongue, although it overteemWith mellow utterance, like a cavern spring,Could figure out and to conception bringAll I beheld and felt. Methought I layWatching the zenith, where the milky wayAmong the stars in virgin splendour pours;And travelling my eye, until the doorsOf heaven appear'd to open for my flight,I became loth and fearful to alightFrom such high soaring by a downward glance:So kept me stedfast in that airy trance,Spreading imaginary pinions wide.When, presently, the stars began to glide,And faint away, before my eager view:At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue,And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge;And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emergeThe loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'erA shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soarSo passionately bright, my dazzled soulCommingling with her argent spheres did rollThrough clear and cloudy, even when she wentAt last into a dark and vapoury tent--Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed trainOf planets all were in the blue again.To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'dMy sight right upward: but it was quite dazedBy a bright something, sailing down apace,Making me quickly veil my eyes and face:Again I look'd, and, O ye deities,Who from Olympus watch our destinies!Whence that completed form of all completeness?Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O WhereHast thou a symbol of her golden hair?Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;Not--thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shunSuch follying before thee--yet she had,Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;The which were blended in, I know not how,With such a paradise of lips and eyes,Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,That, when I think thereon, my spirit clingsAnd plays about its fancy, till the stingsOf human neighbourhood envenom all.Unto what awful power shall I call?To what high fane?--Ah! see her hovering feet,More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweetThan those of sea-born Venus, when she roseFrom out her cradle shell. The wind out-blowsHer scarf into a fluttering pavilion;'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a millionOf little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,Handfuls of daisies."--"Endymion, how strange!Dream within dream!"--"She took an airy range,And then, towards me, like a very maid,Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much;Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,Yet held my recollection, even as oneWho dives three fathoms where the waters runGurgling in beds of coral: for anon,I felt upmounted in that regionWhere falling stars dart their artillery forth,And eagles struggle with the buffeting northThat balances the heavy meteor-stone;--Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone,But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky.Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high,And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd;Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'dHuge dens and caverns in a mountain's side:There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'dTo faint once more by looking on my bliss--I was distracted; madly did I kissThe wooing arms which held me, and did giveMy eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live,To take in draughts of life from the gold fountOf kind and passionate looks; to count, and countThe moments, by some greedy help that seem'dA second self, that each might be redeem'dAnd plunder'd of its load of blessedness.Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to pressHer very cheek against my crowned lip,And, at that moment, felt my body dipInto a warmer air: a moment more,Our feet were soft in flowers. There was storeOf newest joys upon that alp. SometimesA scent of violets, and blossoming limes,Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells,Made delicate from all white-flower bells;And once, above the edges of our nest,An arch face peep'd,--an Oread as I guess'd. "Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd meIn midst of all this heaven? Why not see,Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark,And stare them from me? But no, like a sparkThat needs must die, although its little beamReflects upon a diamond, my sweet dreamFell into nothing--into stupid sleep.And so it was, until a gentle creep,A careful moving caught my waking ears,And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears,My clenched hands;--for lo! the poppies hungDew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sungA heavy ditty, and the sullen dayHad chidden herald Hesperus away,With leaden looks: the solitary breezeBluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teazeWith wayward melancholy; and r thought,Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it broughtFaint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus!--Away I wander'd--all the pleasant huesOf heaven and earth had faded: deepest shadesWere deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny gladesWere full of pestilent light; our taintless rillsSeem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gillsOf dying fish; the vermeil rose had blownIn frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grownLike spiked aloe. If an innocent birdBefore my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'dIn little journeys, I beheld in itA disguis'd demon, missioned to knitMy soul with under darkness; to enticeMy stumblings down some monstrous precipice:Therefore I eager followed, and did curseThe disappointment. Time, that aged nurse,Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven!These things, with all their comfortings, are givenTo my down-sunken hours, and with thee,Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing seaOf weary life." Thus ended he, and bothSat silent: for the maid was very lothTo answer; feeling well that breathed wordsWould all be lost, unheard, and vain as swordsAgainst the enchased crocodile, or leapsOf grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps,And wonders; struggles to devise some blame;To put on such a look as would say, ShameOn this poor weakness! but, for all her strife,She could as soon have crush'd away the lifeFrom a sick dove. At length, to break the pause,She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause?This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas!That one who through this middle earth should passMost like a sojourning demi-god, and leaveHis name upon the harp-string, should achieveNo higher bard than simple maidenhood,Singing alone, and fearfully,--how the bloodLeft his young cheek; and how he used to strayHe knew not where; and how he would say, nay,If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love;What could it be but love? How a ring-doveLet fall a sprig of yew tree in his path;And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe,The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses;And then the ballad of his sad life closesWith sighs, and an alas!--Endymion!Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,--anonAmong the winds at large--that all may hearken!Although, before the crystal heavens darken,I watch and dote upon the silver lakesPictur'd in western cloudiness, that takesThe semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands,Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strandsWith horses prancing o'er them, palacesAnd towers of amethyst,--would I so teaseMy pleasant days, because I could not mountInto those regions? The Morphean fountOf that fine element that visions, dreams,And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streamsInto its airy channels with so subtle,So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle,Circled a million times within the spaceOf a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace,A tinting of its quality: how lightMust dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slightThan the mere nothing that engenders them!Then wherefore sully the entrusted gemOf high and noble life with thoughts so sick?Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quickFor nothing but a dream?" Hereat the youthLook'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruthWas in his plaited brow: yet his eyelidsWidened a little, as when Zephyr bidsA little breeze to creep between the fansOf careless butterflies: amid his painsHe seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew,Full palatable; and a colour grewUpon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. "Peona! ever have I long'd to slakeMy thirst for the world's praises: nothing base,No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlaceThe stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd--Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'dAnd sullenly drifting: yet my higher hopeIs of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope,To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven! FoldA rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stressOf music's kiss impregnates the free winds,And with a sympathetic touch unbindsEolian magic from their lucid wombs:Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;Ghosts of melodious prophecyings raveRound 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 passIn every place where infant Orpheus slept.Feel we these things?--that moment have we steptInto a sort of oneness, and our stateIs like a floating spirit's. But there areRicher entanglements, enthralments farMore self-destroying, leading, by degrees,To the chief intensity: the crown of theseIs made of love and friendship, and sits highUpon the forehead of humanity.All its more ponderous and bulky worthIs friendship, whence there ever issues forthA steady splendour; but at the tip-top,There hangs by unseen film, an orbed dropOf light, and that is love: its influence,Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,At which we start and fret; till in the end,Melting into its radiance, we blend,Mingle, and so become a part of it,--Nor with aught else can our souls interknitSo wingedly: when we combine therewith,Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith,And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,That men, who might have tower'd in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of timeAll chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium.And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,Than speak against this ardent listlessness:For I have ever thought that it might blessThe world with benefits unknowingly;As does the nightingale, upperched high,And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves--She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceivesHow tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.Just so may love, although 'tis understoodThe mere commingling of passionate breath,Produce more than our searching witnesseth:What I know not: but who, of men, can tellThat flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swellTo melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,If human souls did never kiss and greet? "Now, if this earthly love has power to makeMen's being mortal, immortal; to shakeAmbition from their memories, and brimTheir measure of content; what merest whim,Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,To one, who keeps within his stedfast aimA love immortal, an immortal too.Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true,And never can be born of atomiesThat buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure,My restless spirit never could endureTo brood so long upon one luxury,Unless it did, though fearfully, espyA hope beyond the shadow of a dream.My sayings will the less obscured seem,When I have told thee how my waking sightHas made me scruple whether that same nightWas pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged browsBushes and trees do lean all round athwart,And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glidePast them, but he must brush on every side.Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell,Far as the slabbed margin of a well,Whose patient level peeps its crystal eyeRight upward, through the bushes, to the sky.Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks setLike vestal primroses, but dark velvetEdges them round, and they have golden pits:'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slitsIn a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,When all above was faint with mid-day heat.And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,I'd bubble up the water through a reed;So reaching back to boy-hood: make me shipsOf moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune beOf their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,I sat contemplating the figures wildOf o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through.Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flewA cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiverThe happy chance: so happy, I was fainTo follow it upon the open plain,And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!A wonder, fair as any I have told--The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leapThrough the cool depth.--It moved as if to flee--I started up, when lo! refreshfully,There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,Bathing my spirit in a new delight.Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of blissAlone preserved me from the drear abyssOf death, for the fair form had gone again.Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us, like the gnawing slothOn the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth,'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisureOf weary days, made deeper exquisite,By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill:And a whole age of lingering moments creptSluggishly by, ere more contentment sweptAway at once the deadly yellow spleen.Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;Once more been tortured with renewed life.When last the wintry gusts gave over strifeWith the conquering sun of spring, and left the skiesWarm and serene, but yet with moistened eyesIn pity of the shatter'd infant buds,--That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd,Chatted with thee, and many days exil'dAll torment from my breast;--'twas even then,Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the denOf helpless discontent,--hurling my lanceFrom place to place, and following at chance,At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuckIn the middle of a brook,--whose silver rambleDown twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did laveThe nether sides of mossy stones and rock,--'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mockIts own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spreadThick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home."Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?"Said I, low voic'd: "Ah whither! 'Tis the grotOf Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,Doth her resign; and where her tender handsShe dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,And babbles thorough silence, till her witsAre gone in tender madness, and anon,Faints into sleep, with many a dying toneOf sadness. O that she would take my vows,And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,And weave them dyingly--send honey-whispersRound every leaf, that all those gentle lispersMay sigh my love unto her pitying!O charitable echo! hear, and singThis ditty to her!--tell her"--so I stay'dMy foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.Salt tears were coming, when I heard my nameMost fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came:‘Endymion! the cave is secreterThan the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stirNo sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noiseOf thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloysAnd trembles through my labyrinthine hair."At that oppress'd I hurried in.--Ah! whereAre those swift moments? Whither are they fled?I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wedSorrow the way to death, but patientlyBear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;And come instead demurest meditation,To occupy me wholly, and to fashionMy pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.No more will I count over, link by link,My chain of grief: no longer strive to findA half-forgetfulness in mountain windBlustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;What a calm round of hours shall make my days.There is a paly flame of hope that playsWhere'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught--And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,Already, a more healthy countenance?By this the sun is setting; we may chanceMeet some of our near-dwellers with my car." This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a starThrough autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.