Endymion: Book I
A
thing
of
beauty
is
a
joy
for
ever:
Its
loveliness
increases;
it
will
never
Pass
into
nothingness;
but
still
will
keep
A
bower
quiet
for
us,
and
a
sleep
Full
of
sweet
dreams,
and
health,
and
quiet
breathing.
Therefore,
on
every
morrow,
are
we
wreathing
A
flowery
band
to
bind
us
to
the
earth,
Spite
of
despondence,
of
the
inhuman
dearth
Of
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
We
have
imagined
for
the
mighty
dead;
All
lovely
tales
that
we
have
heard
or
read:
An
endless
fountain
of
immortal
drink,
Pouring
unto
us
from
the
heaven's
brink.
Nor
do
we
merely
feel
these
essences
For
one
short
hour;
no,
even
as
the
trees
That
whisper
round
a
temple
become
soon
Dear
as
the
temple's
self,
so
does
the
moon,
The
passion
poesy,
glories
infinite,
Haunt
us
till
they
become
a
cheering
light
Unto
our
souls,
and
bound
to
us
so
fast,
That,
whether
there
be
shine,
or
gloom
o'ercast,
They
alway
must
be
with
us,
or
we
die.
Therefore,
'tis
with
full
happiness
that
I
Will
trace
the
story
of
Endymion.
The
very
music
of
the
name
has
gone
Into
my
being,
and
each
pleasant
scene
Is
growing
fresh
before
me
as
the
green
Of
our
own
vallies:
so
I
will
begin
Now
while
I
cannot
hear
the
city's
din;
Now
while
the
early
budders
are
just
new,
And
run
in
mazes
of
the
youngest
hue
About
old
forests;
while
the
willow
trails
Its
delicate
amber;
and
the
dairy
pails
Bring
home
increase
of
milk.
And,
as
the
year
Grows
lush
in
juicy
stalks,
I'll
smoothly
steer
My
little
boat,
for
many
quiet
hours,
With
streams
that
deepen
freshly
into
bowers.
Many
and
many
a
verse
I
hope
to
write,
Before
the
daisies,
vermeil
rimm'd
and
white,
Hide
in
deep
herbage;
and
ere
yet
the
bees
Hum
about
globes
of
clover
and
sweet
peas,
I
must
be
near
the
middle
of
my
story.
O
may
no
wintry
season,
bare
and
hoary,
See
it
half
finished:
but
let
Autumn
bold,
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
pass'd
unworried
By
angry
wolf,
or
pard
with
prying
head,
Until
it
came
to
some
unfooted
plains
Where
fed
the
herds
of
Pan:
ay
great
his
gains
Who
thus
one
lamb
did
lose.
Paths
there
were
many,
Winding
through
palmy
fern,
and
rushes
fenny,
And
ivy
banks;
all
leading
pleasantly
To
a
wide
lawn,
whence
one
could
only
see
Stems
thronging
all
around
between
the
swell
Of
turf
and
slanting
branches:
who
could
tell
The
freshness
of
the
space
of
heaven
above,
Edg'd
round
with
dark
tree
tops?
through
which
a
dove
Would
often
beat
its
wings,
and
often
too
A
little
cloud
would
move
across
the
blue.
Full
in
the
middle
of
this
pleasantness
There
stood
a
marble
altar,
with
a
tress
Of
flowers
budded
newly;
and
the
dew
Had
taken
fairy
phantasies
to
strew
Daisies
upon
the
sacred
sward
last
eve,
And
so
the
dawned
light
in
pomp
receive.
For
'twas
the
morn:
Apollo's
upward
fire
Made
every
eastern
cloud
a
silvery
pyre
Of
brightness
so
unsullied,
that
therein
A
melancholy
spirit
well
might
win
Oblivion,
and
melt
out
his
essence
fine
Into
the
winds:
rain-scented
eglantine
Gave
temperate
sweets
to
that
well-wooing
sun;
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
puls'd
tenfold,
To
feel
this
sun-rise
and
its
glories
old.
Now
while
the
silent
workings
of
the
dawn
Were
busiest,
into
that
self-same
lawn
All
suddenly,
with
joyful
cries,
there
sped
A
troop
of
little
children
garlanded;
Who
gathering
round
the
altar,
seemed
to
pry
Earnestly
round
as
wishing
to
espy
Some
folk
of
holiday:
nor
had
they
waited
For
many
moments,
ere
their
ears
were
sated
With
a
faint
breath
of
music,
which
ev'n
then
Fill'd
out
its
voice,
and
died
away
again.
Within
a
little
space
again
it
gave
Its
airy
swellings,
with
a
gentle
wave,
To
light-hung
leaves,
in
smoothest
echoes
breaking
Through
copse-clad
vallies,—ere
their
death,
oer-taking
The
surgy
murmurs
of
the
lonely
sea.
And
now,
as
deep
into
the
wood
as
we
Might
mark
a
lynx's
eye,
there
glimmered
light
Fair
faces
and
a
rush
of
garments
white,
Plainer
and
plainer
shewing,
till
at
last
Into
the
widest
alley
they
all
past,
Making
directly
for
the
woodland
altar.
O
kindly
muse!
let
not
my
weak
tongue
faulter
In
telling
of
this
goodly
company,
Of
their
old
piety,
and
of
their
glee:
But
let
a
portion
of
ethereal
dew
Fall
on
my
head,
and
presently
unmew
My
soul;
that
I
may
dare,
in
wayfaring,
To
stammer
where
old
Chaucer
used
to
sing.
Leading
the
way,
young
damsels
danced
along,
Bearing
the
burden
of
a
shepherd
song;
Each
having
a
white
wicker
over
brimm'd
With
April's
tender
younglings:
next,
well
trimm'd,
A
crowd
of
shepherds
with
as
sunburnt
looks
As
may
be
read
of
in
Arcadian
books;
Such
as
sat
listening
round
Apollo's
pipe,
When
the
great
deity,
for
earth
too
ripe,
Let
his
divinity
o'er-flowing
die
In
music,
through
the
vales
of
Thessaly:
Some
idly
trailed
their
sheep-hooks
on
the
ground,
And
some
kept
up
a
shrilly
mellow
sound
With
ebon-tipped
flutes:
close
after
these,
Now
coming
from
beneath
the
forest
trees,
A
venerable
priest
full
soberly,
Begirt
with
ministring
looks:
alway
his
eye
Stedfast
upon
the
matted
turf
he
kept,
And
after
him
his
sacred
vestments
swept.
From
his
right
hand
there
swung
a
vase,
milk-white,
Of
mingled
wine,
out-sparkling
generous
light;
And
in
his
left
he
held
a
basket
full
Of
all
sweet
herbs
that
searching
eye
could
cull:
Wild
thyme,
and
valley-lilies
whiter
still
Than
Leda's
love,
and
cresses
from
the
rill.
His
aged
head,
crowned
with
beechen
wreath,
Seem'd
like
a
poll
of
ivy
in
the
teeth
Of
winter
hoar.
Then
came
another
crowd
Of
shepherds,
lifting
in
due
time
aloud
Their
share
of
the
ditty.
After
them
appear'd,
Up-followed
by
a
multitude
that
rear'd
Their
voices
to
the
clouds,
a
fair
wrought
car,
Easily
rolling
so
as
scarce
to
mar
The
freedom
of
three
steeds
of
dapple
brown:
Who
stood
therein
did
seem
of
great
renown
Among
the
throng.
His
youth
was
fully
blown,
Shewing
like
Ganymede
to
manhood
grown;
And,
for
those
simple
times,
his
garments
were
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
seem'd,
To
common
lookers
on,
like
one
who
dream'd
Of
idleness
in
groves
Elysian:
But
there
were
some
who
feelingly
could
scan
A
lurking
trouble
in
his
nether
lip,
And
see
that
oftentimes
the
reins
would
slip
Through
his
forgotten
hands:
then
would
they
sigh,
And
think
of
yellow
leaves,
of
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'd
To
sudden
veneration:
women
meek
Beckon'd
their
sons
to
silence;
while
each
cheek
Of
virgin
bloom
paled
gently
for
slight
fear.
Endymion
too,
without
a
forest
peer,
Stood,
wan,
and
pale,
and
with
an
awed
face,
Among
his
brothers
of
the
mountain
chase.
In
midst
of
all,
the
venerable
priest
Eyed
them
with
joy
from
greatest
to
the
least,
And,
after
lifting
up
his
aged
hands,
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
vallies
where
the
pipe
is
never
dumb;
Or
from
your
swelling
downs,
where
sweet
air
stirs
Blue
hare-bells
lightly,
and
where
prickly
furze
Buds
lavish
gold;
or
ye,
whose
precious
charge
Nibble
their
fill
at
ocean's
very
marge,
Whose
mellow
reeds
are
touch'd
with
sounds
forlorn
By
the
dim
echoes
of
old
Triton's
horn:
Mothers
and
wives!
who
day
by
day
prepare
The
scrip,
with
needments,
for
the
mountain
air;
And
all
ye
gentle
girls
who
foster
up
Udderless
lambs,
and
in
a
little
cup
Will
put
choice
honey
for
a
favoured
youth:
Yea,
every
one
attend!
for
in
good
truth
Our
vows
are
wanting
to
our
great
god
Pan.
Are
not
our
lowing
heifers
sleeker
than
Night-swollen
mushrooms?
Are
not
our
wide
plains
Speckled
with
countless
fleeces?
Have
not
rains
Green'd
over
April's
lap?
No
howling
sad
Sickens
our
fearful
ewes;
and
we
have
had
Great
bounty
from
Endymion
our
lord.
The
earth
is
glad:
the
merry
lark
has
pour'd
His
early
song
against
yon
breezy
sky,
That
spreads
so
clear
o'er
our
solemnity."
Thus
ending,
on
the
shrine
he
heap'd
a
spire
Of
teeming
sweets,
enkindling
sacred
fire;
Anon
he
stain'd
the
thick
and
spongy
sod
With
wine,
in
honour
of
the
shepherd-god.
Now
while
the
earth
was
drinking
it,
and
while
Bay
leaves
were
crackling
in
the
fragrant
pile,
And
gummy
frankincense
was
sparkling
bright
'Neath
smothering
parsley,
and
a
hazy
light
Spread
greyly
eastward,
thus
a
chorus
sang:
"O
THOU,
whose
mighty
palace
roof
doth
hang
From
jagged
trunks,
and
overshadoweth
Eternal
whispers,
glooms,
the
birth,
life,
death
Of
unseen
flowers
in
heavy
peacefulness;
Who
lov'st
to
see
the
hamadryads
dress
Their
ruffled
locks
where
meeting
hazels
darken;
And
through
whole
solemn
hours
dost
sit,
and
hearken
The
dreary
melody
of
bedded
reeds—
In
desolate
places,
where
dank
moisture
breeds
The
pipy
hemlock
to
strange
overgrowth;
Bethinking
thee,
how
melancholy
loth
Thou
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,
turtles
Passion
their
voices
cooingly
'mong
myrtles,
What
time
thou
wanderest
at
eventide
Through
sunny
meadows,
that
outskirt
the
side
Of
thine
enmossed
realms:
O
thou,
to
whom
Broad
leaved
fig
trees
even
now
foredoom
Their
ripen'd
fruitage;
yellow
girted
bees
Their
golden
honeycombs;
our
village
leas
Their
fairest-blossom'd
beans
and
poppied
corn;
The
chuckling
linnet
its
five
young
unborn,
To
sing
for
thee;
low
creeping
strawberries
Their
summer
coolness;
pent
up
butterflies
Their
freckled
wings;
yea,
the
fresh
budding
year
All
its
completions—be
quickly
near,
By
every
wind
that
nods
the
mountain
pine,
O
forester
divine!
"Thou,
to
whom
every
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
out-peeping;
Or
to
delight
thee
with
fantastic
leaping,
The
while
they
pelt
each
other
on
the
crown
With
silvery
oak
apples,
and
fir
cones
brown—
By
all
the
echoes
that
about
thee
ring,
Hear
us,
O
satyr
king!
"O
Hearkener
to
the
loud
clapping
shears,
While
ever
and
anon
to
his
shorn
peers
A
ram
goes
bleating:
Winder
of
the
horn,
When
snouted
wild-boars
routing
tender
corn
Anger
our
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
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
Paean,
Upon
thy
Mount
Lycean!
Even
while
they
brought
the
burden
to
a
close,
A
shout
from
the
whole
multitude
arose,
That
lingered
in
the
air
like
dying
rolls
Of
abrupt
thunder,
when
Ionian
shoals
Of
dolphins
bob
their
noses
through
the
brine.
Meantime,
on
shady
levels,
mossy
fine,
Young
companies
nimbly
began
dancing
To
the
swift
treble
pipe,
and
humming
string.
Aye,
those
fair
living
forms
swam
heavenly
To
tunes
forgotten—out
of
memory:
Fair
creatures!
whose
young
children's
children
bred
Thermopylæ
its
heroes—not
yet
dead,
But
in
old
marbles
ever
beautiful.
High
genitors,
unconscious
did
they
cull
Time's
sweet
first-fruits—they
danc'd
to
weariness,
And
then
in
quiet
circles
did
they
press
The
hillock
turf,
and
caught
the
latter
end
Of
some
strange
history,
potent
to
send
A
young
mind
from
its
bodily
tenement.
Or
they
might
watch
the
quoit-pitchers,
intent
On
either
side;
pitying
the
sad
death
Of
Hyacinthus,
when
the
cruel
breath
Of
Zephyr
slew
him,—Zephyr
penitent,
Who
now,
ere
Phoebus
mounts
the
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,
Call'd
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.
Arous'd
from
this
sad
mood
By
one,
who
at
a
distance
loud
halloo'd,
Uplifting
his
strong
bow
into
the
air,
Many
might
after
brighter
visions
stare:
After
the
Argonauts,
in
blind
amaze
Tossing
about
on
Neptune's
restless
ways,
Until,
from
the
horizon's
vaulted
side,
There
shot
a
golden
splendour
far
and
wide,
Spangling
those
million
poutings
of
the
brine
With
quivering
ore:
'twas
even
an
awful
shine
From
the
exaltation
of
Apollo's
bow;
A
heavenly
beacon
in
their
dreary
woe.
Who
thus
were
ripe
for
high
contemplating,
Might
turn
their
steps
towards
the
sober
ring
Where
sat
Endymion
and
the
aged
priest
'Mong
shepherds
gone
in
eld,
whose
looks
increas'd
The
silvery
setting
of
their
mortal
star.
There
they
discours'd
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
ministring
the
potent
rule
of
fate
With
speed
of
fire-tailed
exhalations;
To
tint
her
pallid
cheek
with
bloom,
who
cons
Sweet
poesy
by
moonlight:
besides
these,
A
world
of
other
unguess'd
offices.
Anon
they
wander'd,
by
divine
converse,
Into
Elysium;
vieing
to
rehearse
Each
one
his
own
anticipated
bliss.
One
felt
heart-certain
that
he
could
not
miss
His
quick
gone
love,
among
fair
blossom'd
boughs,
Where
every
zephyr-sigh
pouts
and
endows
Her
lips
with
music
for
the
welcoming.
Another
wish'd,
mid
that
eternal
spring,
To
meet
his
rosy
child,
with
feathery
sails,
Sweeping,
eye-earnestly,
through
almond
vales:
Who,
suddenly,
should
stoop
through
the
smooth
wind,
And
with
the
balmiest
leaves
his
temples
bind;
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
shar'd
their
famish'd
scrips.
Thus
all
out-told
Their
fond
imaginations,—saving
him
Whose
eyelids
curtain'd
up
their
jewels
dim,
Endymion:
yet
hourly
had
he
striven
To
hide
the
cankering
venom,
that
had
riven
His
fainting
recollections.
Now
indeed
His
senses
had
swoon'd
off:
he
did
not
heed
The
sudden
silence,
or
the
whispers
low,
Or
the
old
eyes
dissolving
at
his
woe,
Or
anxious
calls,
or
close
of
trembling
palms,
Or
maiden's
sigh,
that
grief
itself
embalms:
But
in
the
self-same
fixed
trance
he
kept,
Like
one
who
on
the
earth
had
never
stept.
Aye,
even
as
dead-still
as
a
marble
man,
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
persuade
A
yielding
up,
a
cradling
on
her
care.
Her
eloquence
did
breathe
away
the
curse:
She
led
him,
like
some
midnight
spirit
nurse
Of
happy
changes
in
emphatic
dreams,
Along
a
path
between
two
little
streams,—
Guarding
his
forehead,
with
her
round
elbow,
From
low-grown
branches,
and
his
footsteps
slow
From
stumbling
over
stumps
and
hillocks
small;
Until
they
came
to
where
these
streamlets
fall,
With
mingled
bubblings
and
a
gentle
rush,
Into
a
river,
clear,
brimful,
and
flush
With
crystal
mocking
of
the
trees
and
sky.
A
little
shallop,
floating
there
hard
by,
Pointed
its
beak
over
the
fringed
bank;
And
soon
it
lightly
dipt,
and
rose,
and
sank,
And
dipt
again,
with
the
young
couple's
weight,—
Peona
guiding,
through
the
water
straight,
Towards
a
bowery
island
opposite;
Which
gaining
presently,
she
steered
light
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,
On
her
own
couch,
new
made
of
flower
leaves,
Dried
carefully
on
the
cooler
side
of
sheaves
When
last
the
sun
his
autumn
tresses
shook,
And
the
tann'd
harvesters
rich
armfuls
took.
Soon
was
he
quieted
to
slumbrous
rest:
But,
ere
it
crept
upon
him,
he
had
prest
Peona's
busy
hand
against
his
lips,
And
still,
a
sleeping,
held
her
finger-tips
In
tender
pressure.
And
as
a
willow
keeps
A
patient
watch
over
the
stream
that
creeps
Windingly
by
it,
so
the
quiet
maid
Held
her
in
peace:
so
that
a
whispering
blade
Of
grass,
a
wailful
gnat,
a
bee
bustling
Down
in
the
blue-bells,
or
a
wren
light
rustling
Among
seer
leaves
and
twigs,
might
all
be
heard.
O
magic
sleep!
O
comfortable
bird,
That
broodest
o'er
the
troubled
sea
of
the
mind
Till
it
is
hush'd
and
smooth!
O
unconfin'd
Restraint!
imprisoned
liberty!
great
key
To
golden
palaces,
strange
minstrelsy,
Fountains
grotesque,
new
trees,
bespangled
caves,
Echoing
grottos,
full
of
tumbling
waves
And
moonlight;
aye,
to
all
the
mazy
world
Of
silvery
enchantment!—who,
upfurl'd
Beneath
thy
drowsy
wing
a
triple
hour,
But
renovates
and
lives?—Thus,
in
the
bower,
Endymion
was
calm'd
to
life
again.
Opening
his
eyelids
with
a
healthier
brain,
He
said:
"I
feel
this
thine
endearing
love
All
through
my
bosom:
thou
art
as
a
dove
Trembling
its
closed
eyes
and
sleeked
wings
About
me;
and
the
pearliest
dew
not
brings
Such
morning
incense
from
the
fields
of
May,
As
do
those
brighter
drops
that
twinkling
stray
From
those
kind
eyes,—the
very
home
and
haunt
Of
sisterly
affection.
Can
I
want
Aught
else,
aught
nearer
heaven,
than
such
tears?
Yet
dry
them
up,
in
bidding
hence
all
fears
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
I'll
poll
The
fair-grown
yew
tree,
for
a
chosen
bow:
And,
when
the
pleasant
sun
is
getting
low,
Again
I'll
linger
in
a
sloping
mead
To
hear
the
speckled
thrushes,
and
see
feed
Our
idle
sheep.
So
be
thou
cheered
sweet,
And,
if
thy
lute
is
here,
softly
intreat
My
soul
to
keep
in
its
resolved
course."
Hereat
Peona,
in
their
silver
source,
Shut
her
pure
sorrow
drops
with
glad
exclaim,
And
took
a
lute,
from
which
there
pulsing
came
A
lively
prelude,
fashioning
the
way
In
which
her
voice
should
wander.
'Twas
a
lay
More
subtle
cadenced,
more
forest
wild
Than
Dryope's
lone
lulling
of
her
child;
And
nothing
since
has
floated
in
the
air
So
mournful
strange.
Surely
some
influence
rare
Went,
spiritual,
through
the
damsel's
hand;
For
still,
with
Delphic
emphasis,
she
spann'd
The
quick
invisible
strings,
even
though
she
saw
Endymion's
spirit
melt
away
and
thaw
Before
the
deep
intoxication.
But
soon
she
came,
with
sudden
burst,
upon
Her
self-possession—swung
the
lute
aside,
And
earnestly
said:
"Brother,
'tis
vain
to
hide
That
thou
dost
know
of
things
mysterious,
Immortal,
starry;
such
alone
could
thus
Weigh
down
thy
nature.
Hast
thou
sinn'd
in
aught
Offensive
to
the
heavenly
powers?
Caught
A
Paphian
dove
upon
a
message
sent?
Thy
deathful
bow
against
some
deer-herd
bent,
Sacred
to
Dian?
Haply,
thou
hast
seen
Her
naked
limbs
among
the
alders
green;
And
that,
alas!
is
death.
No,
I
can
trace
Something
more
high
perplexing
in
thy
face!"
Endymion
look'd
at
her,
and
press'd
her
hand,
And
said,
"Art
thou
so
pale,
who
wast
so
bland
And
merry
in
our
meadows?
How
is
this?
Tell
me
thine
ailment:
tell
me
all
amiss!—
Ah!
thou
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,
That
toiling
years
would
put
within
my
grasp,
That
I
have
sigh'd
for:
with
so
deadly
gasp
No
man
e'er
panted
for
a
mortal
love.
So
all
have
set
my
heavier
grief
above
These
things
which
happen.
Rightly
have
they
done:
I,
who
still
saw
the
horizontal
sun
Heave
his
broad
shoulder
o'er
the
edge
of
the
world,
Out-facing
Lucifer,
and
then
had
hurl'd
My
spear
aloft,
as
signal
for
the
chace—
I,
who,
for
very
sport
of
heart,
would
race
With
my
own
steed
from
Araby;
pluck
down
A
vulture
from
his
towery
perching;
frown
A
lion
into
growling,
loth
retire—
To
lose,
at
once,
all
my
toil
breeding
fire,
And
sink
thus
low!
but
I
will
ease
my
breast
Of
secret
grief,
here
in
this
bowery
nest.
"This
river
does
not
see
the
naked
sky,
Till
it
begins
to
progress
silverly
Around
the
western
border
of
the
wood,
Whence,
from
a
certain
spot,
its
winding
flood
Seems
at
the
distance
like
a
crescent
moon:
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
blossom'd
suddenly
a
magic
bed
Of
sacred
ditamy,
and
poppies
red:
At
which
I
wondered
greatly,
knowing
well
That
but
one
night
had
wrought
this
flowery
spell;
And,
sitting
down
close
by,
began
to
muse
What
it
might
mean.
Perhaps,
thought
I,
Morpheus,
In
passing
here,
his
owlet
pinions
shook;
Or,
it
may
be,
ere
matron
Night
uptook
Her
ebon
urn,
young
Mercury,
by
stealth,
Had
dipt
his
rod
in
it:
such
garland
wealth
Came
not
by
common
growth.
Thus
on
I
thought,
Until
my
head
was
dizzy
and
distraught.
Moreover,
through
the
dancing
poppies
stole
A
breeze,
most
softly
lulling
to
my
soul;
And
shaping
visions
all
about
my
sight
Of
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
tell
The
enchantment
that
afterwards
befel?
Yet
it
was
but
a
dream:
yet
such
a
dream
That
never
tongue,
although
it
overteem
With
mellow
utterance,
like
a
cavern
spring,
Could
figure
out
and
to
conception
bring
All
I
beheld
and
felt.
Methought
I
lay
Watching
the
zenith,
where
the
milky
way
Among
the
stars
in
virgin
splendour
pours;
And
travelling
my
eye,
until
the
doors
Of
heaven
appear'd
to
open
for
my
flight,
I
became
loth
and
fearful
to
alight
From
such
high
soaring
by
a
downward
glance:
So
kept
me
stedfast
in
that
airy
trance,
Spreading
imaginary
pinions
wide.
When,
presently,
the
stars
began
to
glide,
And
faint
away,
before
my
eager
view:
At
which
I
sigh'd
that
I
could
not
pursue,
And
dropt
my
vision
to
the
horizon's
verge;
And
lo!
from
opening
clouds,
I
saw
emerge
The
loveliest
moon,
that
ever
silver'd
o'er
A
shell
for
Neptune's
goblet:
she
did
soar
So
passionately
bright,
my
dazzled
soul
Commingling
with
her
argent
spheres
did
roll
Through
clear
and
cloudy,
even
when
she
went
At
last
into
a
dark
and
vapoury
tent—
Whereat,
methought,
the
lidless-eyed
train
Of
planets
all
were
in
the
blue
again.
To
commune
with
those
orbs,
once
more
I
rais'd
My
sight
right
upward:
but
it
was
quite
dazed
By
a
bright
something,
sailing
down
apace,
Making
me
quickly
veil
my
eyes
and
face:
Again
I
look'd,
and,
O
ye
deities,
Who
from
Olympus
watch
our
destinies!
Whence
that
completed
form
of
all
completeness?
Whence
came
that
high
perfection
of
all
sweetness?
Speak,
stubborn
earth,
and
tell
me
where,
O
Where
Hast
thou
a
symbol
of
her
golden
hair?
Not
oat-sheaves
drooping
in
the
western
sun;
Not—thy
soft
hand,
fair
sister!
let
me
shun
Such
follying
before
thee—yet
she
had,
Indeed,
locks
bright
enough
to
make
me
mad;
And
they
were
simply
gordian'd
up
and
braided,
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
vein'd,
more
soft,
more
whitely
sweet
Than
those
of
sea-born
Venus,
when
she
rose
From
out
her
cradle
shell.
The
wind
out-blows
Her
scarf
into
a
fluttering
pavilion;
'Tis
blue,
and
over-spangled
with
a
million
Of
little
eyes,
as
though
thou
wert
to
shed,
Over
the
darkest,
lushest
blue-bell
bed,
Handfuls
of
daisies."—"Endymion,
how
strange!
Dream
within
dream!"—"She
took
an
airy
range,
And
then,
towards
me,
like
a
very
maid,
Came
blushing,
waning,
willing,
and
afraid,
And
press'd
me
by
the
hand:
Ah!
'twas
too
much;
Methought
I
fainted
at
the
charmed
touch,
Yet
held
my
recollection,
even
as
one
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
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'd
Huge
dens
and
caverns
in
a
mountain's
side:
There
hollow
sounds
arous'd
me,
and
I
sigh'd
To
faint
once
more
by
looking
on
my
bliss—
I
was
distracted;
madly
did
I
kiss
The
wooing
arms
which
held
me,
and
did
give
My
eyes
at
once
to
death:
but
'twas
to
live,
To
take
in
draughts
of
life
from
the
gold
fount
Of
kind
and
passionate
looks;
to
count,
and
count
The
moments,
by
some
greedy
help
that
seem'd
A
second
self,
that
each
might
be
redeem'd
And
plunder'd
of
its
load
of
blessedness.
Ah,
desperate
mortal!
I
ev'n
dar'd
to
press
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
Of
newest
joys
upon
that
alp.
Sometimes
A
scent
of
violets,
and
blossoming
limes,
Loiter'd
around
us;
then
of
honey
cells,
Made
delicate
from
all
white-flower
bells;
And
once,
above
the
edges
of
our
nest,
An
arch
face
peep'd,—an
Oread
as
I
guess'd.
"Why
did
I
dream
that
sleep
o'er-power'd
me
In
midst
of
all
this
heaven?
Why
not
see,
Far
off,
the
shadows
of
his
pinions
dark,
And
stare
them
from
me?
But
no,
like
a
spark
That
needs
must
die,
although
its
little
beam
Reflects
upon
a
diamond,
my
sweet
dream
Fell
into
nothing—into
stupid
sleep.
And
so
it
was,
until
a
gentle
creep,
A
careful
moving
caught
my
waking
ears,
And
up
I
started:
Ah!
my
sighs,
my
tears,
My
clenched
hands;—for
lo!
the
poppies
hung
Dew-dabbled
on
their
stalks,
the
ouzel
sung
A
heavy
ditty,
and
the
sullen
day
Had
chidden
herald
Hesperus
away,
With
leaden
looks:
the
solitary
breeze
Bluster'd,
and
slept,
and
its
wild
self
did
teaze
With
wayward
melancholy;
and
r
thought,
Mark
me,
Peona!
that
sometimes
it
brought
Faint
fare-thee-wells,
and
sigh-shrilled
adieus!—
Away
I
wander'd—all
the
pleasant
hues
Of
heaven
and
earth
had
faded:
deepest
shades
Were
deepest
dungeons;
heaths
and
sunny
glades
Were
full
of
pestilent
light;
our
taintless
rills
Seem'd
sooty,
and
o'er-spread
with
upturn'd
gills
Of
dying
fish;
the
vermeil
rose
had
blown
In
frightful
scarlet,
and
its
thorns
out-grown
Like
spiked
aloe.
If
an
innocent
bird
Before
my
heedless
footsteps
stirr'd,
and
stirr'd
In
little
journeys,
I
beheld
in
it
A
disguis'd
demon,
missioned
to
knit
My
soul
with
under
darkness;
to
entice
My
stumblings
down
some
monstrous
precipice:
Therefore
I
eager
followed,
and
did
curse
The
disappointment.
Time,
that
aged
nurse,
Rock'd
me
to
patience.
Now,
thank
gentle
heaven!
These
things,
with
all
their
comfortings,
are
given
To
my
down-sunken
hours,
and
with
thee,
Sweet
sister,
help
to
stem
the
ebbing
sea
Of
weary
life."
Thus
ended
he,
and
both
Sat
silent:
for
the
maid
was
very
loth
To
answer;
feeling
well
that
breathed
words
Would
all
be
lost,
unheard,
and
vain
as
swords
Against
the
enchased
crocodile,
or
leaps
Of
grasshoppers
against
the
sun.
She
weeps,
And
wonders;
struggles
to
devise
some
blame;
To
put
on
such
a
look
as
would
say,
Shame
On
this
poor
weakness!
but,
for
all
her
strife,
She
could
as
soon
have
crush'd
away
the
life
From
a
sick
dove.
At
length,
to
break
the
pause,
She
said
with
trembling
chance:
"Is
this
the
cause?
This
all?
Yet
it
is
strange,
and
sad,
alas!
That
one
who
through
this
middle
earth
should
pass
Most
like
a
sojourning
demi-god,
and
leave
His
name
upon
the
harp-string,
should
achieve
No
higher
bard
than
simple
maidenhood,
Singing
alone,
and
fearfully,—how
the
blood
Left
his
young
cheek;
and
how
he
used
to
stray
He
knew
not
where;
and
how
he
would
say,
nay,
If
any
said
'twas
love:
and
yet
'twas
love;
What
could
it
be
but
love?
How
a
ring-dove
Let
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
closes
With
sighs,
and
an
alas!—Endymion!
Be
rather
in
the
trumpet's
mouth,—anon
Among
the
winds
at
large—that
all
may
hearken!
Although,
before
the
crystal
heavens
darken,
I
watch
and
dote
upon
the
silver
lakes
Pictur'd
in
western
cloudiness,
that
takes
The
semblance
of
gold
rocks
and
bright
gold
sands,
Islands,
and
creeks,
and
amber-fretted
strands
With
horses
prancing
o'er
them,
palaces
And
towers
of
amethyst,—would
I
so
tease
My
pleasant
days,
because
I
could
not
mount
Into
those
regions?
The
Morphean
fount
Of
that
fine
element
that
visions,
dreams,
And
fitful
whims
of
sleep
are
made
of,
streams
Into
its
airy
channels
with
so
subtle,
So
thin
a
breathing,
not
the
spider's
shuttle,
Circled
a
million
times
within
the
space
Of
a
swallow's
nest-door,
could
delay
a
trace,
A
tinting
of
its
quality:
how
light
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
high-fronted
honour
to
the
quick
For
nothing
but
a
dream?"
Hereat
the
youth
Look'd
up:
a
conflicting
of
shame
and
ruth
Was
in
his
plaited
brow:
yet
his
eyelids
Widened
a
little,
as
when
Zephyr
bids
A
little
breeze
to
creep
between
the
fans
Of
careless
butterflies:
amid
his
pains
He
seem'd
to
taste
a
drop
of
manna-dew,
Full
palatable;
and
a
colour
grew
Upon
his
cheek,
while
thus
he
lifeful
spake.
"Peona!
ever
have
I
long'd
to
slake
My
thirst
for
the
world's
praises:
nothing
base,
No
merely
slumberous
phantasm,
could
unlace
The
stubborn
canvas
for
my
voyage
prepar'd—
Though
now
'tis
tatter'd;
leaving
my
bark
bar'd
And
sullenly
drifting:
yet
my
higher
hope
Is
of
too
wide,
too
rainbow-large
a
scope,
To
fret
at
myriads
of
earthly
wrecks.
Wherein
lies
happiness?
In
that
which
becks
Our
ready
minds
to
fellowship
divine,
A
fellowship
with
essence;
till
we
shine,
Full
alchemiz'd,
and
free
of
space.
Behold
The
clear
religion
of
heaven!
Fold
A
rose
leaf
round
thy
finger's
taperness,
And
soothe
thy
lips:
hist,
when
the
airy
stress
Of
music's
kiss
impregnates
the
free
winds,
And
with
a
sympathetic
touch
unbinds
Eolian
magic
from
their
lucid
wombs:
Then
old
songs
waken
from
enclouded
tombs;
Old
ditties
sigh
above
their
father's
grave;
Ghosts
of
melodious
prophecyings
rave
Round
every
spot
where
trod
Apollo's
foot;
Bronze
clarions
awake,
and
faintly
bruit,
Where
long
ago
a
giant
battle
was;
And,
from
the
turf,
a
lullaby
doth
pass
In
every
place
where
infant
Orpheus
slept.
Feel
we
these
things?—that
moment
have
we
stept
Into
a
sort
of
oneness,
and
our
state
Is
like
a
floating
spirit's.
But
there
are
Richer
entanglements,
enthralments
far
More
self-destroying,
leading,
by
degrees,
To
the
chief
intensity:
the
crown
of
these
Is
made
of
love
and
friendship,
and
sits
high
Upon
the
forehead
of
humanity.
All
its
more
ponderous
and
bulky
worth
Is
friendship,
whence
there
ever
issues
forth
A
steady
splendour;
but
at
the
tip-top,
There
hangs
by
unseen
film,
an
orbed
drop
Of
light,
and
that
is
love:
its
influence,
Thrown
in
our
eyes,
genders
a
novel
sense,
At
which
we
start
and
fret;
till
in
the
end,
Melting
into
its
radiance,
we
blend,
Mingle,
and
so
become
a
part
of
it,—
Nor
with
aught
else
can
our
souls
interknit
So
wingedly:
when
we
combine
therewith,
Life's
self
is
nourish'd
by
its
proper
pith,
And
we
are
nurtured
like
a
pelican
brood.
Aye,
so
delicious
is
the
unsating
food,
That
men,
who
might
have
tower'd
in
the
van
Of
all
the
congregated
world,
to
fan
And
winnow
from
the
coming
step
of
time
All
chaff
of
custom,
wipe
away
all
slime
Left
by
men-slugs
and
human
serpentry,
Have
been
content
to
let
occasion
die,
Whilst
they
did
sleep
in
love's
elysium.
And,
truly,
I
would
rather
be
struck
dumb,
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
cloister'd
among
cool
and
bunched
leaves—
She
sings
but
to
her
love,
nor
e'er
conceives
How
tiptoe
Night
holds
back
her
dark-grey
hood.
Just
so
may
love,
although
'tis
understood
The
mere
commingling
of
passionate
breath,
Produce
more
than
our
searching
witnesseth:
What
I
know
not:
but
who,
of
men,
can
tell
That
flowers
would
bloom,
or
that
green
fruit
would
swell
To
melting
pulp,
that
fish
would
have
bright
mail,
The
earth
its
dower
of
river,
wood,
and
vale,
The
meadows
runnels,
runnels
pebble-stones,
The
seed
its
harvest,
or
the
lute
its
tones,
Tones
ravishment,
or
ravishment
its
sweet,
If
human
souls
did
never
kiss
and
greet?
"Now,
if
this
earthly
love
has
power
to
make
Men's
being
mortal,
immortal;
to
shake
Ambition
from
their
memories,
and
brim
Their
measure
of
content;
what
merest
whim,
Seems
all
this
poor
endeavour
after
fame,
To
one,
who
keeps
within
his
stedfast
aim
A
love
immortal,
an
immortal
too.
Look
not
so
wilder'd;
for
these
things
are
true,
And
never
can
be
born
of
atomies
That
buzz
about
our
slumbers,
like
brain-flies,
Leaving
us
fancy-sick.
No,
no,
I'm
sure,
My
restless
spirit
never
could
endure
To
brood
so
long
upon
one
luxury,
Unless
it
did,
though
fearfully,
espy
A
hope
beyond
the
shadow
of
a
dream.
My
sayings
will
the
less
obscured
seem,
When
I
have
told
thee
how
my
waking
sight
Has
made
me
scruple
whether
that
same
night
Was
pass'd
in
dreaming.
Hearken,
sweet
Peona!
Beyond
the
matron-temple
of
Latona,
Which
we
should
see
but
for
these
darkening
boughs,
Lies
a
deep
hollow,
from
whose
ragged
brows
Bushes
and
trees
do
lean
all
round
athwart,
And
meet
so
nearly,
that
with
wings
outraught,
And
spreaded
tail,
a
vulture
could
not
glide
Past
them,
but
he
must
brush
on
every
side.
Some
moulder'd
steps
lead
into
this
cool
cell,
Far
as
the
slabbed
margin
of
a
well,
Whose
patient
level
peeps
its
crystal
eye
Right
upward,
through
the
bushes,
to
the
sky.
Oft
have
I
brought
thee
flowers,
on
their
stalks
set
Like
vestal
primroses,
but
dark
velvet
Edges
them
round,
and
they
have
golden
pits:
'Twas
there
I
got
them,
from
the
gaps
and
slits
In
a
mossy
stone,
that
sometimes
was
my
seat,
When
all
above
was
faint
with
mid-day
heat.
And
there
in
strife
no
burning
thoughts
to
heed,
I'd
bubble
up
the
water
through
a
reed;
So
reaching
back
to
boy-hood:
make
me
ships
Of
moulted
feathers,
touchwood,
alder
chips,
With
leaves
stuck
in
them;
and
the
Neptune
be
Of
their
petty
ocean.
Oftener,
heavily,
When
love-lorn
hours
had
left
me
less
a
child,
I
sat
contemplating
the
figures
wild
Of
o'er-head
clouds
melting
the
mirror
through.
Upon
a
day,
while
thus
I
watch'd,
by
flew
A
cloudy
Cupid,
with
his
bow
and
quiver;
So
plainly
character'd,
no
breeze
would
shiver
The
happy
chance:
so
happy,
I
was
fain
To
follow
it
upon
the
open
plain,
And,
therefore,
was
just
going;
when,
behold!
A
wonder,
fair
as
any
I
have
told—
The
same
bright
face
I
tasted
in
my
sleep,
Smiling
in
the
clear
well.
My
heart
did
leap
Through
the
cool
depth.—It
moved
as
if
to
flee—
I
started
up,
when
lo!
refreshfully,
There
came
upon
my
face,
in
plenteous
showers,
Dew-drops,
and
dewy
buds,
and
leaves,
and
flowers,
Wrapping
all
objects
from
my
smothered
sight,
Bathing
my
spirit
in
a
new
delight.
Aye,
such
a
breathless
honey-feel
of
bliss
Alone
preserved
me
from
the
drear
abyss
Of
death,
for
the
fair
form
had
gone
again.
Pleasure
is
oft
a
visitant;
but
pain
Clings
cruelly
to
us,
like
the
gnawing
sloth
On
the
deer's
tender
haunches:
late,
and
loth,
'Tis
scar'd
away
by
slow
returning
pleasure.
How
sickening,
how
dark
the
dreadful
leisure
Of
weary
days,
made
deeper
exquisite,
By
a
fore-knowledge
of
unslumbrous
night!
Like
sorrow
came
upon
me,
heavier
still,
Than
when
I
wander'd
from
the
poppy
hill:
And
a
whole
age
of
lingering
moments
crept
Sluggishly
by,
ere
more
contentment
swept
Away
at
once
the
deadly
yellow
spleen.
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
shatter'd
infant
buds,—
That
time
thou
didst
adorn,
with
amber
studs,
My
hunting
cap,
because
I
laugh'd
and
smil'd,
Chatted
with
thee,
and
many
days
exil'd
All
torment
from
my
breast;—'twas
even
then,
Straying
about,
yet,
coop'd
up
in
the
den
Of
helpless
discontent,—hurling
my
lance
From
place
to
place,
and
following
at
chance,
At
last,
by
hap,
through
some
young
trees
it
struck,
And,
plashing
among
bedded
pebbles,
stuck
In
the
middle
of
a
brook,—whose
silver
ramble
Down
twenty
little
falls,
through
reeds
and
bramble,
Tracing
along,
it
brought
me
to
a
cave,
Whence
it
ran
brightly
forth,
and
white
did
lave
The
nether
sides
of
mossy
stones
and
rock,—
'Mong
which
it
gurgled
blythe
adieus,
to
mock
Its
own
sweet
grief
at
parting.
Overhead,
Hung
a
lush
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
voic'd:
"Ah
whither!
'Tis
the
grot
Of
Proserpine,
when
Hell,
obscure
and
hot,
Doth
her
resign;
and
where
her
tender
hands
She
dabbles,
on
the
cool
and
sluicy
sands:
Or
'tis
the
cell
of
Echo,
where
she
sits,
And
babbles
thorough
silence,
till
her
wits
Are
gone
in
tender
madness,
and
anon,
Faints
into
sleep,
with
many
a
dying
tone
Of
sadness.
O
that
she
would
take
my
vows,
And
breathe
them
sighingly
among
the
boughs,
To
sue
her
gentle
ears
for
whose
fair
head,
Daily,
I
pluck
sweet
flowerets
from
their
bed,
And
weave
them
dyingly—send
honey-whispers
Round
every
leaf,
that
all
those
gentle
lispers
May
sigh
my
love
unto
her
pitying!
O
charitable
echo!
hear,
and
sing
This
ditty
to
her!—tell
her"—so
I
stay'd
My
foolish
tongue,
and
listening,
half
afraid,
Stood
stupefied
with
my
own
empty
folly,
And
blushing
for
the
freaks
of
melancholy.
Salt
tears
were
coming,
when
I
heard
my
name
Most
fondly
lipp'd,
and
then
these
accents
came:
‘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
combing
hand,
the
while
it
travelling
cloys
And
trembles
through
my
labyrinthine
hair."
At
that
oppress'd
I
hurried
in.—Ah!
where
Are
those
swift
moments?
Whither
are
they
fled?
I'll
smile
no
more,
Peona;
nor
will
wed
Sorrow
the
way
to
death,
but
patiently
Bear
up
against
it:
so
farewel,
sad
sigh;
And
come
instead
demurest
meditation,
To
occupy
me
wholly,
and
to
fashion
My
pilgrimage
for
the
world's
dusky
brink.
No
more
will
I
count
over,
link
by
link,
My
chain
of
grief:
no
longer
strive
to
find
A
half-forgetfulness
in
mountain
wind
Blustering
about
my
ears:
aye,
thou
shalt
see,
Dearest
of
sisters,
what
my
life
shall
be;
What
a
calm
round
of
hours
shall
make
my
days.
There
is
a
paly
flame
of
hope
that
plays
Where'er
I
look:
but
yet,
I'll
say
'tis
naught—
And
here
I
bid
it
die.
Have
not
I
caught,
Already,
a
more
healthy
countenance?
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
Through
autumn
mists,
and
took
Peona's
hand:
They
stept
into
the
boat,
and
launch'd
from
land.
