Book II

O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:For others, good or bad, hatred and tearsHave become indolent; but touching thine,One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,Struggling, and blood, and shrieks--all dimly fadesInto some backward corner of the brain;Yet, in our very souls, we feel amainThe close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!Swart planet in the universe of deeds!Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breedsAlong the pebbled shore of memory!Many old rotten-timber'd boats there beUpon thy vaporous bosom, magnifiedTo goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.But wherefore this? What care, though owl did flyAbout the great Athenian admiral's mast?What care, though striding Alexander pastThe Indus with his Macedonian numbers?Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbersThe glutted Cyclops, what care?--Juliet leaningAmid her window-flowers,--sighing,--weaningTenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,Doth more avail than these: the silver flowOf Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,Are things to brood on with more ardencyThan the death-day of empires. FearfullyMust such conviction come upon his head,Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread,Without one muse's smile, or kind behest,The path of love and poesy. But rest,In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drearThan to be crush'd, in striving to uprearLove's standard on the battlements of song.So once more days and nights aid me along,Like legion'd soldiers.

Brain-sick shepherd prince,What promise hast thou faithful guarded sinceThe day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrowsCome with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days,Has he been wandering in uncertain ways:Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokesOf the lone woodcutter; and listening still,Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill.Now he is sitting by a shady spring,And elbow-deep with feverous fingeringStems the upbursting cold: a wild rose treePavilions him in bloom, and he doth seeA bud which snares his fancy: lo! but nowHe plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;And, in the middle, there is softly pightA golden butterfly; upon whose wingsThere must be surely character'd strange things,For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

Lightly this little herald flew aloft,Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands:Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bandsHis limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hiesDazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;And like a new-born spirit did he passThrough the green evening quiet in the sun,O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreamsThe summer time away. One track unseamsA wooded cleft, and, far away, the blueOf ocean fades upon him; then, anew,He sinks adown a solitary glen,Where there was never sound of mortal men,Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadencesMelting to silence, when upon the breezeSome holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feetWent swift beneath the merry-winged guide,Until it reached a splashing fountain's sideThat, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'dUnto the temperate air: then high it soar'd,And, downward, suddenly began to dip,As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sipThe crystal spout-head: so it did, with touchMost delicate, as though afraid to smutchEven with mealy gold the waters clear.But, at that very touch, to disappearSo fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,Endymion sought around, and shook each bedOf covert flowers in vain; and then he flungHimself along the grass. What gentle tongue,What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?It was a nymph uprisen to the breastIn the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.To him her dripping hand she softly kist,And anxiously began to plait and twistHer ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth!Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,The bitterness of love: too long indeed,Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weedThy soul of care, by heavens, I would offerAll the bright riches of my crystal cofferTo Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that drawsA virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sandsTawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far landsBy my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,My charming rod, my potent river spells;Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cupMeander gave me,--for I bubbled upTo fainting creatures in a desert wild.But woe is me, I am but as a childTo gladden thee; and all I dare to say,Is, that I pity thee; that on this dayI've been thy guide; that thou must wander farIn other regions, past the scanty barTo mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'enFrom every wasting sigh, from every pain,Into the gentle bosom of thy love.Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above:But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel!I have a ditty for my hollow cell."

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

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

'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;Sharpening, by degrees, his appetiteTo dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;A dusky empire and its diadems;One faint eternal eventide of gems.Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,With all its lines abrupt and angular:Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roofCurves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,It seems an angry lightning, and doth hissFancy into belief: anon it leadsThrough winding passages, where sameness breedsVexing conceptions of some sudden change;Whether to silver grots, or giant rangeOf sapphire columns, or fantastic bridgeAthwart a flood of crystal. On a ridgeNow fareth he, that o'er the vast beneathTowers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seethA hundred waterfalls, whose voices comeBut as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numbHis bosom grew, when first he, far away,Descried an orbed diamond, set to frayOld darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sunUprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stunCame the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,He saw not fiercer wonders--past the witOf any spirit to tell, but one of thoseWho, when this planet's sphering time doth close,Will be its high remembrancers: who they?The mighty ones who have made eternal dayFor Greece and England. While astonishmentWith deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he wentInto a marble gallery, passing throughA mimic temple, so complete and trueIn sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'dTo search it inwards; whence far off appear'd,Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eyeDown sidelong aisles, and into niches old.And when, more near against the marble coldHe had touch'd his forehead, he began to threadAll courts and passages, where silence deadRous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaintHimself with every mystery, and awe;Till, weary, he sat down before the mawOf a wide outlet, fathomless and dimTo wild uncertainty and shadows grim.There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before,And thoughts of self came on, how crude and soreThe journey homeward to habitual self!A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar,Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,Into the bosom of a hated thing.

What misery most drowningly doth singIn lone Endymion's ear, now he has caughtThe goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!He cannot see the heavens, nor the flowOf rivers, nor hill-flowers running wildIn pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prestCool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;But far from such companionship to wearAn unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away,Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?"No!" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?"No! loudly echoed times innumerable.At which he straightway started, and 'gan tellHis paces back into the temple's chief;Warming and growing strong in the beliefOf help from Dian: so that when againHe caught her airy form, thus did he plain,Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chasteOf river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,Where with thy silver bow and arrows keenArt thou now forested? O woodland Queen,What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?Where dost thou listen to the wide halloosOf thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark treeGlimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be,'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost tasteFreedom as none can taste it, nor dost wasteThy loveliness in dismal elements;But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,There livest blissfully. Ah, if to theeIt feels Elysian, how rich to me,An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name!Within my breast there lives a choking flame--O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!A homeward fever parches up my tongue--O let me slake it at the running springs!Upon my car a noisy nothing rings--O let me once more hear the linnet's note!Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float--O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light!Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice!Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice?O think how this dry palate would rejoice!If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice,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'erleapHis destiny, alert he stood: but whenObstinate silence came heavily again,Feeling about for its old couch of spaceAnd airy cradle, lowly bow'd his faceDesponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rillTo its old channel, or a swollen tideTo margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crownsUp heaping through the slab: refreshment drownsItself, and strives its own delights to hide--Nor in one spot alone; the floral prideIn a long whispering birth enchanted grewBefore his footsteps; as when heav'd anewOld ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all hoar,Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastesOne moment with his hand among the sweets:Onward he goes--he stops--his bosom beatsAs plainly in his ear, as the faint charmOf which the throbs were born. This still alarm,This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe:For it came more softly than the east could blowArion's magic to the Atlantic isles;Or than the west, made jealous by the smilesOf thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyreTo seas Ionian and Tyrian.

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

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

After a thousand mazes overgone,At last, with sudden step, he came uponA chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high,Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,And more of beautiful and strange beside:For on a silken couch of rosy pride,In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youthOf fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach:And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach,Or ripe October's faded marigolds,Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds--Not hiding up an Apollonian curveOf neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerveOf knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;But rather, giving them to the filled sightOfficiously. Sideway his face repos'dOn one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd,By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouthTo slumbery pout; just as the morning southDisparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,Four lily stalks did their white honours wedTo make a coronal; and round him grewAll tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,Together intertwin'd and trammel'd fresh:The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;And virgin's bower, trailing airily;With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,Stood serene Cupids watching silently.One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;And, ever and anon, uprose to lookAt the youth's slumber; while another tookA willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,And shook it on his hair; another flewIn through the woven roof, and fluttering-wiseRain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.

At these enchantments, and yet many more,The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er;Until, impatient in embarrassment,He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading wentTo that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway,Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper dayThou art a wanderer, and thy presence hereMight seem unholy, be of happy cheer!For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour,When some ethereal and high-favouring donorPresents immortal bowers to mortal sense;As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. HenceWas I in no wise startled. So reclineUpon these living flowers. Here is wine,Alive with sparkles--never, I aver,Since Ariadne was a vintager,So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fearsWere high about Pomona: here is cream,Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'dFor the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'dBy any touch, a bunch of blooming plumsReady to melt between an infant's gums:And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees,In starlight, by the three Hesperides.Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee knowOf all these things around us." He did so,Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre;And thus: "I need not any hearing tireBy telling how the sea-born goddess pin'dFor a mortal youth, and how she strove to bindHim all in all unto her doting self.Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf,He was content to let her amorous pleaFaint through his careless arms; content to seeAn unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet;Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,Lay sorrowing; when every tear was bornOf diverse passion; when her lips and eyesWere clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighsCame vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.Hush! no exclaim--yet, justly mightst thou callCurses upon his head.--I was half glad,But my poor mistress went distract and mad,When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flewTo Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drewImmortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'dEach summer time to life. Lo! this is he,That same Adonis, safe in the privacyOf this still region all his winter-sleep.Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weepOver his waned corse, the tremulous showerHeal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power,Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:The which she fills with visions, and doth dressIn all this quiet luxury; and hath setUs young immortals, without any let,To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd,Even to a moment's filling up, and fastShe scuds with summer breezes, to pant throughThe first long kiss, warm firstling, to renewEmbower'd sports in Cytherea's isle.Look! how those winged listeners all this whileStand anxious: see! behold!"--This clamant wordBroke through the careful silence; for they heardA rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'dPigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter'd,The while one hand, that erst upon his thighLay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and graduallyUp to his forehead. Then there was a humOf sudden voices, echoing, "Come! come!Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk'dUnto the clover-sward, and she has talk'dFull soothingly to every nested finch:Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinchTo your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!"At this, from every side they hurried in,Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,And doubling over head their little fistsIn backward yawns. But all were soon alive:For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, diveIn nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair,So from the arbour roof down swell'd an airOdorous and enlivening; making allTo laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly callFor their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed greenDisparted, and far upward could be seenBlue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,Spun off a drizzling dew,--which falling chillOn soft Adonis' shoulders, made him stillNestle and turn uneasily about.Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd out,And silken traces lighten'd in descent;And soon, returning from love's banishment,Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd:Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'dA tumult to his heart, and a new lifeInto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,But for her comforting! unhappy sight,But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can writeOf these first minutes? The unchariest museTo embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.

O it has ruffled every spirit there,Saving love's self, who stands superb to shareThe 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 knowWhat themselves think of it; from forth his eyesThere darts strange light of varied hues and dyes:A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but whoLook full upon it feel anon the blueOf his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.Endymion feels it, and no more controlsThe 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 wildWith love--he--but alas! too well I seeThou know'st the deepness of his misery.Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true,That when through heavy hours I used to rueThe endless sleep of this new-born Adon',This stranger ay I pitied. For uponA dreary morning once I fled awayInto the breezy clouds, to weep and prayFor this my love: for vexing Mars had teaz'dMe even to tears: thence, when a little eas'd,Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood,I saw this youth as he despairing stood:Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind;Those same full fringed lids a constant blindOver his sullen eyes: I saw him throwHimself on wither'd leaves, even as thoughDeath had come sudden; for no jot he mov'd,Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he lov'dSome fair immortal, and that his embraceHad zoned her through the night. There is no traceOf this in heaven: I have mark'd each cheek,And find it is the vainest thing to seek;And that of all things 'tis kept secretest.Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest:So still obey the guiding hand that fendsThee safely through these wonders for sweet ends.'Tis a concealment needful in extreme;And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beamThou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu!Here must we leave thee."--At these words up flewThe impatient doves, up rose the floating car,Up went the hum celestial. High afarThe Latmian saw them minish into nought;And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caughtA vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.When all was darkened, with Etnean throeThe earth clos'd--gave a solitary moan--And left him once again in twilight lone.

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast,For all those visions were o'ergone, and past,And he in loneliness: he felt assur'dOf happy times, when all he had endur'dWould seem a feather to the mighty prize.So, with unusual gladness, on he hiesThrough caves, and palaces of mottled ore,Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor,Black polish'd porticos of awful shade,And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,Leading afar past wild magnificence,Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thenceStretching across a void, then guiding o'erEnormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,Streams subterranean tease their granite beds;Then heighten'd just above the silvery headsOf a thousand fountains, so that he could dashThe waters with his spear; but at the splash,Done heedlessly, those spouting columns roseSudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to encloseHis diamond path with fretwork, streaming roundAlive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound,Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shellsWelcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwellsOn this delight; for, every minute's space,The streams with changed magic interlace:Sometimes like delicatest lattices,Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping trees,Moving about as in a gentle wind,Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd,Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies,Spangled, and rich with liquid broideriesOf flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare;And then the water, into stubborn streamsCollecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams,Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,Of those dusk places in times far aloofCathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewelTo these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell,And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes,Blackening on every side, and overheadA vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespreadWith starlight gems: aye, all so huge and strange,The solitary felt a hurried changeWorking within him into something dreary,--Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary,And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds.But he revives at once: for who beholdsNew sudden things, nor casts his mental slough?Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below,Came mother Cybele! alone--alone--In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrownAbout her majesty, and front death-pale,With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions haleThe sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws,Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy pawsUplifted drowsily, and nervy tailsCowering their tawny brushes. Silent sailsThis shadowy queen athwart, and faints awayIn another gloomy arch.

Wherefore delay,Young traveller, in such a mournful place?Art thou wayworn, or canst not further traceThe diamond path? And does it indeed endAbrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bendThy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borneCall ardently! He was indeed wayworn;Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost;To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crostTowards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings,Without one impious word, himself he flings,Committed to the darkness and the gloom:Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fellThrough unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd,Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'dSo thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'dLarge honey-combs of green, and freshly teem'dWith airs delicious. In the greenest nookThe eagle landed him, and farewel took.

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrownWith golden moss. His every sense had grownEthereal for pleasure; 'bove his headFlew a delight half-graspable; his treadWas Hesperean; to his capable earsSilence was music from the holy spheres;A dewy luxury was in his eyes;The little flowers felt his pleasant sighsAnd stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cellHe wander'd through, oft wondering at such swellOf sudden exaltation: but, "Alas!Said he, "will all this gush of feeling passAway in solitude? And must they wane,Like melodies upon a sandy plain,Without an echo? Then shall I be leftSo sad, so melancholy, so bereft!Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,My breath of life, where art thou? High above,Dancing before the morning gates of heaven?Or keeping watch among those starry seven,Old Atlas' children? Art a maid of the waters,One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters?Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian's,Weaving a coronal of tender scionsFor very idleness? Where'er thou art,Methinks it now is at my will to startInto thine arms; to scare Aurora's train,And snatch thee from the morning; o'er the mainTo scud like a wild bird, and take thee offFrom thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doffThy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves.No, no, too eagerly my soul deceivesIts powerless self: I know this cannot be.O let me then by some sweet dreaming fleeTo her entrancements: hither sleep awhile!Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foilFor some few hours the coming solitude."

Thus spake he, and that moment felt enduedWith power to dream deliciously; so woundThrough a dim passage, searching till he foundThe smoothest mossy bed and deepest, whereHe threw himself, and just into the airStretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss!A naked waist: "Fair Cupid, whence is this?"A well-known voice sigh'd, "Sweetest, here am I!"At which soft ravishment, with doating cryThey trembled to each other.--Helicon!O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon!That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'erThese sorry pages; then the verse would soarAnd sing above this gentle pair, like larkOver his nested young: but all is darkAround thine aged top, and thy clear fountExhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the countOf mighty Poets is made up; the scrollIs folded by the Muses; the bright rollIs in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyesHave 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 weepThat there is no old power left to steepA quill immortal in their joyous tears.Long time in silence did their anxious fearsQuestion that thus it was; long time they layFondling and kissing every doubt away;Long time ere soft caressing sobs beganTo mellow into words, and then there ranTwo bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips."O known Unknown! from whom my being sipsSuch darling essence, wherefore may I notBe ever in these arms? in this sweet spotPillow my chin for ever? ever pressThese toying hands and kiss their smooth excess?Why not for ever and for ever feelThat breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt stealAway from me again, indeed, indeed--Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heedMy lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair!Is--is it to be so? No! Who will dareTo pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will,Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. StillLet me entwine thee surer, surer--nowHow 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 lov'd Ida the divine!Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!His soul will 'scape us--O felicity!How he does love me! His poor temples beatTo the very tune of love--how sweet, sweet, sweet.Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;Revive, or these soft hours will hurry byIn tranced dulness; speak, and let that spellAffright this lethargy! I cannot quellIts heavy pressure, and will press at leastMy lips to thine, that they may richly feastUntil we taste the life of love again.What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain!I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive;And so long absence from thee doth bereaveMy soul of any rest: yet must I hence:Yet, can I not to starry eminenceUplift thee; nor for very shame can ownMyself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groanOr thou wilt force me from this secrecy,And I must blush in heaven. O that IHad done it already; that the dreadful smilesAt my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles,Had waned from Olympus' solemn height,And from all serious Gods; that our delightWas quite forgotten, save of us alone!And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atoneFor endless pleasure, by some coward blushes:Yet must I be a coward!--Honour rushesToo palpable before me--the sad lookOf Jove--Minerva's start--no bosom shookWith awe of purity--no Cupid pinionIn reverence veiled--my crystalline dominionHalf lost, and all old hymns made nullity!But what is this to love? O I could flyWith thee into the ken of heavenly powers,So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours,Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at onceThat I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce--Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown--O I do think that I have been aloneIn chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing,While every eye saw me my hair uptyingWith fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love,I was as vague as solitary dove,Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss--Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,An immortality of passion's thine:Ere long I will exalt thee to the shineOf heaven ambrosial; and we will shadeOurselves whole summers by a river glade;And I will tell thee stories of the sky,And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy.My happy love will overwing all bounds!O let me melt into thee; let the soundsOf our close voices marry at their birth;Let us entwine hoveringly--O dearthOf human words! roughness of mortal speech!Lispings empyrean will I sometime teachThine honied tongue--lute-breathings, which I gaspTo have thee understand, now while I claspThee thus, and weep for fondness--I am pain'd,Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contain'dIn the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?"--Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strifeMelted into a languor. He return'dEntranced vows and tears.

Ye who have yearn'dWith too much passion, will here stay and pity,For the mere sake of truth; as 'tis a dittyNot of these days, but long ago 'twas toldBy a cavern wind unto a forest old;And then the forest told it in a dreamTo a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleamA poet caught as he was journeyingTo Phoebus' shrine; and in it he did flingHis weary limbs, bathing an hour's space,And after, straight in that inspired placeHe sang the story up into the air,Giving it universal freedom. ThereHas it been ever sounding for those earsWhose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheersYon centinel stars; and he who listens to itMust surely be self-doomed or he will rue it:For quenchless burnings come upon the heart,Made fiercer by a fear lest any partShould be engulphed in the eddying wind.As much as here is penn'd doth always findA resting place, thus much comes clear and plain;Anon the strange voice is upon the wane--And 'tis but echo'd from departing sound,That the fair visitant at last unwoundHer 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 hersSweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'dHow lone he was once more, and sadly press'dHis empty arms together, hung his head,And most forlorn upon that widow'd bedSat silently. Love's madness he had known:Often with more than tortured lion's groanMoanings had burst from him; but now that rageHad pass'd away: no longer did he wageA rough-voic'd war against the dooming stars.No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars:The lyre of his soul Eolian tun'dForgot all violence, and but commun'dWith melancholy thought: O he had swoon'dDrunken from pleasure's nipple; and his loveHenceforth was dove-like.--Loth was he to moveFrom the imprinted couch, and when he did,'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hidIn muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'dHalf seeing visions that might have dismay'dAlecto's serpents; ravishments more keenThan Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did leanOver eclipsing eyes: and at the lastIt 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 bulkIn which whales arbour close, to brood and sulkAgainst an endless storm. Moreover too,Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue,Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonderEndymion sat down, and 'gan to ponderOn all his life: his youth, up to the dayWhen 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay,He stept upon his shepherd throne: the lookOf his white palace in wild forest nook,And all the revels he had lorded there:Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair,With every friend and fellow-woodlander--Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spurOf the old bards to mighty deeds: his plansTo nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans:That wondrous night: the great Pan-festival:His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all,Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd:Then all its buried magic, till it flush'dHigh with excessive love. "And now," thought he,"How long must I remain in jeopardyOf blank amazements that amaze no more?Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the coreAll 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 fruitInto the bloom of heaven: other light,Though it be quick and sharp enough to blightThe 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 swellsOf noises far away?--list!"--HereuponHe kept an anxious ear. The humming toneCame louder, and behold, there as he lay,On either side outgush'd, with misty spray,A copious spring; and both together dash'dSwift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'dAmong the conchs and shells of the lofty grot,Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shotDown from the ceiling's height, pouring a noiseAs of some breathless racers whose hopes poizeUpon the last few steps, and with spent forceAlong the ground they took a winding course.Endymion follow'd--for it seem'd that oneEver pursued, the other strove to shun--Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nighHe had left thinking of the mystery,--And was now rapt in tender hoveringsOver the vanish'd bliss. Ah! what is it singsHis dream away? What melodies are these?They sound as through the whispering of trees,Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear!

"O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fearSuch tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why,Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that IWere rippling round her dainty fairness now,Circling about her waist, and striving howTo entice her to a dive! then stealing inBetween her luscious lips and eyelids thin.O that her shining hair was in the sun,And I distilling from it thence to runIn amorous rillets down her shrinking form!To linger on her lily shoulders, warmBetween her kissing breasts, and every charmTouch raptur'd!--See how painfully I flow:Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe.Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead,A happy wooer, to the flowery meadWhere all that beauty snar'd me."--"Cruel god,Desist! or my offended mistress' nodWill stagnate all thy fountains:--tease me notWith syren words--Ah, have I really gotSuch power to madden thee? And is it true--Away, away, or I shall dearly rueMy very thoughts: in mercy then away,Kindest Alpheus, for should I obeyMy own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane."--"O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a painLike this of mine, then would I fearless turnAnd be a criminal."--"Alas, I burn,I shudder--gentle river, get thee hence.Alpheus! thou enchanter! every senseOf 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 laveIn thy deceitful stream, a panting glowGrew strong within me: wherefore serve me so,And call it love? Alas, 'twas cruelty.Not once more did I close my happy eyesAmid the thrush's song. Away! Avaunt!O 'twas a cruel thing."--"Now thou dost tauntSo softly, Arethusa, that I thinkIf thou wast playing on my shady brink,Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid!Stifle thine heart no more:--nor be afraidOf angry powers: there are deitiesWill shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pourA dewy balm upon them!--fear no more,Sweet Arethusa! Dian's self must feelSometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, stealBlushing into my soul, and let us flyThese dreary caverns for the open sky.I will delight thee all my winding course,From the green sea up to my hidden sourceAbout Arcadian forests; and will shewThe channels where my coolest waters flowThrough mossy rocks; where, 'mid exuberant green,I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseenThan Saturn in his exile; where I brimRound flowery islands, and take thence a skimOf mealy sweets, which myriads of beesBuzz from their honied wings: and thou shouldst pleaseThyself to choose the richest, where we mightBe incense-pillow'd every summer night.Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,And let us be thus comforted; unlessThou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless streamHurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam,And pour to death along some hungry sands."--"What can I do, Alpheus? Dian standsSevere before me: persecuting fate!Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast lateA huntress free in"--At this, sudden fellThose two sad streams adown a fearful dell.The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more,Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'erThe name of Arethusa. On the vergeOf that dark gulph he wept, and said: "I urgeThee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage,By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage,If thou art powerful, these lovers pains;And make them happy in some happy plains.

He turn'd--there was a whelming sound--he stept,There was a cooler light; and so he keptTowards 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.