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Poem by John Keats
Endymion. Book 4
MUSE of my native land! loftiest Muse! O first-born on the mountains! by the hues Of heaven on the spiritual air begot: Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, While yet our England was a wolfish den; Before our forests heard the talk of men; Before the first of Druids was a child;— Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:— Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, Apollo’s garland:—yet didst thou divine Such home-bred glory, that they cry’d in vain, “Come hither, Sister of the Island!” Plain Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake A higher summons:—still didst thou betake Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won A full accomplishment! The thing is done, Which undone, these our latter days had risen On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know’st what prison Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets Our spirit’s wings: despondency besets Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn Seems to give forth its light in very scorn Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. Long have I said, how happy he who shrives To thee! But then I thought on poets gone, And could not pray:—nor can I now—so on I move to the end in lowliness of heart.—— “Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid! Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields! To one so friendless the clear freshet yields A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour: Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour Of native air—let me but die at home.” Endymion to heaven’s airy dome Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, When these words reach’d him. Whereupon he bows His head through thorny-green entanglement Of underwood, and to the sound is bent, Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. “Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying To set my dull and sadden’d spirit playing? No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet That I may worship them? No eyelids meet To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies Before me, till from these enslaving eyes Redemption sparkles!—I am sad and lost.” Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air, Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear A woman’s sigh alone and in distress? See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless? Phoebe is fairer far—O gaze no more:— Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty’s store, Behold her panting in the forest grass! Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass For tenderness the arms so idly lain Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain, To see such lovely eyes in swimming search After some warm delight, that seems to perch Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond Their upper lids?—Hist! “O for Hermes’ wand To touch this flower into human shape! That woodland Hyacinthus could escape From his green prison, and here kneeling down Call me his queen, his second life’s fair crown! Ah me, how I could love!—My soul doth melt For the unhappy youth—Love! I have felt So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender To what my own full thoughts had made too tender, That but for tears my life had fled away!— Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day, And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, There is no lightning, no authentic dew But in the eye of love: there’s not a sound, Melodious howsoever, can confound The heavens and earth in one to such a death As doth the voice of love: there’s not a breath Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, Till it has panted round, and stolen a share Of passion from the heart!”— Upon a bough He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now Thirst for another love: O impious, That he can even dream upon it thus!— Thought he, “Why am I not as are the dead, Since to a woe like this I have been led Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea? Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee By Juno’s smile I turn not—no, no, no— While the great waters are at ebb and flow.— I have a triple soul! O fond pretence— For both, for both my love is so immense, I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.” And so he groan’d, as one by beauty slain. The lady’s heart beat quick, and he could see Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. He sprang from his green covert: there she lay, Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay; With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries. “Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity! O pardon me, for I am full of grief— Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith Thou art my executioner, and I feel Loving and hatred, misery and weal, Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, And all my story that much passion slew me; Do smile upon the evening of my days: And, for my tortur’d brain begins to craze, Be thou my nurse; and let me understand How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.— Dost weep for me? Then should I be content. Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern’d earth Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst To meet oblivion.”—As her heart would burst The maiden sobb’d awhile, and then replied: “Why must such desolation betide As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush, Schooling its half-fledg’d little ones to brush About the dewy forest, whisper tales?— Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt, Methinks ’twould be a guilt—a very guilt— Not to companion thee, and sigh away The light—the dusk—the dark—till break of day!” “Dear lady,” said Endymion, “’tis past: I love thee! and my days can never last. That I may pass in patience still speak: Let me have music dying, and I seek No more delight—I bid adieu to all. Didst thou not after other climates call, And murmur about Indian streams?”—Then she, Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, For pity sang this roundelay— “O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?— To give maiden blushes To the white rose bushes? Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips? “O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?— To give the glow-worm light? Or, on a moonless night, To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry? “O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?— To give at evening pale Unto the nightingale, That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? “O Sorrow, Why dost borrow Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?— A lover would not tread A cowslip on the head, Though he should dance from eve till peep of day— Nor any drooping flower Held sacred for thy bower, Wherever he may sport himself and play. “To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind: I would deceive her And so leave her, But ah! she is so constant and so kind. “Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide There was no one to ask me why I wept,— And so I kept 185 Brimming the water-lily cups with tears Cold as my fears. “Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat a weeping: what enamour’d bride, Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, But hides and shrouds Beneath dark palm trees by a river side? “And as I sat, over the light blue hills There came a noise of revellers: the rills Into the wide stream came of purple hue— ’Twas Bacchus and his crew! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills From kissing cymbals made a merry din— ’Twas Bacchus and his kin! Like to a moving vintage down they came, Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame; All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, To scare thee, Melancholy! O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! And I forgot thee, as the berried holly By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:— I rush’d into the folly! “Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, With sidelong laughing; And little rills of crimson wine imbrued His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white For Venus’ pearly bite; And near him rode Silenus on his ass, Pelted with flowers as he on did pass Tipsily quaffing. “Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye! So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your bowers desolate, Your lutes, and gentler fate?— ‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing? A conquering! Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:— Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our wild minstrelsy!’ “Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye! So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?— ‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, And cold mushrooms; For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!— Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our mad minstrelsy!’ “Over wide streams and mountains great we went, And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, With Asian elephants: Onward these myriads—with song and dance, With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance, Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil: With toying oars and silken sails they glide, Nor care for wind and tide. “Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes, From rear to van they scour about the plains; A three days’ journey in a moment done: And always, at the rising of the sun, About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, On spleenful unicorn. “I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown Before the vine-wreath crown! I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and sing To the silver cymbals’ ring! I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce Old Tartary the fierce! The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail, And from their treasures scatter pearled hail; Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, And all his priesthood moans; Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.— Into these regions came I following him, Sick hearted, weary—so I took a whim To stray away into these forests drear Alone, without a peer: And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. “Young stranger! I’ve been a ranger In search of pleasure throughout every clime: Alas! ’tis not for me! Bewitch’d I sure must be, To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. “Come then, Sorrow! Sweetest Sorrow! Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: I thought to leave thee And deceive thee, But now of all the world I love thee best. “There is not one, No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; Thou art her mother, And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.” O what a sigh she gave in finishing, And look, quite dead to every worldly thing! Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her; And listened to the wind that now did stir About the crisped oaks full drearily, Yet with as sweet a softness as might be Remember’d from its velvet summer song. At last he said: “Poor lady, how thus long Have I been able to endure that voice? Fair Melody! kind Syren! I’ve no choice; I must be thy sad servant evermore: I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. Alas, I must not think—by Phoebe, no! Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so? Say, beautifullest, shall I never think? O thou could’st foster me beyond the brink Of recollection! make my watchful care Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair! Do gently murder half my soul, and I Shall feel the other half so utterly!— I’m giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth; O let it blush so ever! let it soothe My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.— This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is; And this is sure thine other softling—this Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near! Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear! And whisper one sweet word that I may know This is this world—sweet dewy blossom!”—Woe! Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?— Even these words went echoing dismally Through the wide forest—a most fearful tone, Like one repenting in his latest moan; And while it died away a shade pass’d by, As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth Their timid necks and tremble; so these both Leant to each other trembling, and sat so Waiting for some destruction—when lo, Foot-feather’d Mercury appear’d sublime Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt One moment from his home: only the sward He with his wand light touch’d, and heavenward Swifter than sight was gone—even before The teeming earth a sudden witness bore Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear Above the crystal circlings white and clear; And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise, How they can dive in sight and unseen rise— So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, Each with large dark blue wings upon his back. The youth of Caria plac’d the lovely dame On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame The other’s fierceness. Through the air they flew, High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew Exhal’d to Phoebus’ lips, away they are gone, Far from the earth away—unseen, alone, Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, The buoyant life of song can floating be Above their heads, and follow them untir’d.— Muse of my native land, am I inspir’d? This is the giddy air, and I must spread Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance Precipitous: I have beneath my glance Those towering horses and their mournful freight. Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?— There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade From some approaching wonder, and behold Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, Dying to embers from their native fire! There curl’d a purple mist around them; soon, It seem’d as when around the pale new moon Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow: ’Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. For the first time, since he came nigh dead born From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn Had he left more forlorn; for the first time, He felt aloof the day and morning’s prime— Because into his depth Cimmerian There came a dream, shewing how a young man, Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin, Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win An immortality, and how espouse Jove’s daughter, and be reckon’d of his house. Now was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate, That he might at the threshold one hour wait To hear the marriage melodies, and then Sink downward to his dusky cave again. His litter of smooth semilucent mist, Diversely ting’d with rose and amethyst, Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought; And scarcely for one moment could be caught His sluggish form reposing motionless. Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress Of vision search’d for him, as one would look Athwart the sallows of a river nook To catch a glance at silver throated eels,— Or from old Skiddaw’s top, when fog conceals His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far. These raven horses, though they foster’d are Of earth’s splenetic fire, dully drop Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop; Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,— And on those pinions, level in mid air, Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks To divine powers: from his hand full fain Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain: He tries the nerve of Phoebus’ golden bow, And asketh where the golden apples grow: Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield, And strives in vain to unsettle and wield A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings A full-brimm’d goblet, dances lightly, sings And tantalizes long; at last he drinks, And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand. He blows a bugle,—an ethereal band Are visible above: the Seasons four,— Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar, Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, In swells unmitigated, still doth last To sway their floating morris. “Whose is this? Whose bugle?” he inquires: they smile—“O Dis! Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know Its mistress’ lips? Not thou?—’Tis Dian’s: lo! She rises crescented!” He looks, ’tis she, His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea, And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring Towards her, and awakes—and, strange, o’erhead, Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, Beheld awake his very dream: the gods Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. O state perplexing! On the pinion bed, Too well awake, he feels the panting side Of his delicious lady. He who died For soaring too audacious in the sun, Where that same treacherous wax began to run, Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne, To that fair shadow’d passion puls’d its way— Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day! So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, He could not help but kiss her: then he grew Awhile forgetful of all beauty save Young Phoebe’s, golden hair’d; and so ’gan crave Forgiveness: yet he turn’d once more to look At the sweet sleeper,—all his soul was shook,— She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore. At this the shadow wept, melting away. The Latmian started up: “Bright goddess, stay! Search my most hidden breast! By truth’s own tongue, I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung To desperation? Is there nought for me, Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?” These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses: Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses With ’haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath. “Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe This murky phantasm! thou contented seem’st Pillow’d in lovely idleness, nor dream’st What horrors may discomfort thee and me. Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery!— Yet did she merely weep—her gentle soul Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole In tenderness, would I were whole in love! Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, Even when I feel as true as innocence? I do, I do.—What is this soul then? Whence Came it? It does not seem my own, and I Have no self-passion or identity. Some fearful end must be: where, where is it? By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit Alone about the dark—Forgive me, sweet: Shall we away?” He rous’d the steeds: they beat Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair. The good-night blush of eve was waning slow, And Vesper, risen star, began to throe In the dusk heavens silvery, when they Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange— Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, In such wise, in such temper, so aloof Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, So witless of their doom, that verily ’Tis well nigh past man’s search their hearts to see; Whether they wept, or laugh’d, or griev’d, or toy’d— Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy’d. Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, The moon put forth a little diamond peak, No bigger than an unobserved star, Or tiny point of fairy scymetar; Bright signal that she only stoop’d to tie Her silver sandals, ere deliciously She bow’d into the heavens her timid head. Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled, While to his lady meek the Carian turn’d, To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern’d This beauty in its birth—Despair! despair! He saw her body fading gaunt and spare In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz’d her wrist; It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss’d, And, horror! kiss’d his own—he was alone. Her steed a little higher soar’d, and then Dropt hawkwise to the earth. There lies a den, Beyond the seeming confines of the space Made for the soul to wander in and trace Its own existence, of remotest glooms. Dark regions are around it, where the tombs Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart: And in these regions many a venom’d dart At random flies; they are the proper home Of every ill: the man is yet to come Who hath not journeyed in this native hell. But few have ever felt how calm and well Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall: Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, Yet all is still within and desolate. Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear No sound so loud as when on curtain’d bier The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won. Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him; and from an urn, Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught— Young Semele such richness never quaft In her maternal longing. Happy gloom! Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom Of health by due; where silence dreariest Is most articulate; where hopes infest; Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul! Pregnant with such a den to save the whole In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! For, never since thy griefs and woes began, Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude. Aye, his lull’d soul was there, although upborne With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn Because he knew not whither he was going. So happy was he, not the aerial blowing Of trumpets at clear parley from the east Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. They stung the feather’d horse: with fierce alarm He flapp’d towards the sound. Alas, no charm Could lift Endymion’s head, or he had view’d A skyey mask, a pinion’d multitude,— And silvery was its passing: voices sweet Warbling the while as if to lull and greet The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, While past the vision went in bright array. “Who, who from Dian’s feast would be away? For all the golden bowers of the day Are empty left? Who, who away would be From Cynthia’s wedding and festivity? Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings He leans away for highest heaven and sings, Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!— Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too! Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew, Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme; Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, All gather’d in the dewy morning: hie Away! fly, fly!— Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given Two liquid pulse streams ’stead of feather’d wings, Two fan-like fountains,—thine illuminings For Dian play: Dissolve the frozen purity of air; Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright The Star-Queen’s crescent on her marriage night: Haste, haste away!— Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see! And of the Bear has Pollux mastery: A third is in the race! who is the third, Speeding away swift as the eagle bird? The ramping Centaur! The Lion’s mane’s on end: the Bear how fierce! The Centaur’s arrow ready seems to pierce Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent Into the blue of heaven. He’ll be shent, Pale unrelentor, When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing.— Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying So timidly among the stars: come hither! Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither They all are going. Danae’s Son, before Jove newly bow’d, Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral: Ye shall for ever live and love, for all Thy tears are flowing.— By Daphne’s fright, behold Apollo!—” More Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore, Prone to the green head of a misty hill. His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. “Alas!” said he, “were I but always borne Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn A path in hell, for ever would I bless Horrors which nourish an uneasiness For my own sullen conquering: to him Who lives beyond earth’s boundary, grief is dim, Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see The grass; I feel the solid ground—Ah, me! It is thy voice—divinest! Where?—who? who Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew? Behold upon this happy earth we are; Let us ay love each other; let us fare On forest-fruits, and never, never go Among the abodes of mortals here below, Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny! Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, But with thy beauty will I deaden it. Where didst thou melt too? By thee will I sit For ever: let our fate stop here—a kid I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid Us live in peace, in love and peace among His forest wildernesses. I have clung To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream! O I have been Presumptuous against love, against the sky, Against all elements, against the tie Of mortals each to each, against the blooms Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory Has my own soul conspired: so my story Will I to children utter, and repent. There never liv’d a mortal man, who bent His appetite beyond his natural sphere, But starv’d and died. My sweetest Indian, here, Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast My life from too thin breathing: gone and past Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel! And air of visions, and the monstrous swell Of visionary seas! No, never more Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast My love is still for thee. The hour may come When we shall meet in pure elysium. On earth I may not love thee; and therefore Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss! My river-lily bud! one human kiss! One sigh of real breath—one gentle squeeze, Warm as a dove’s nest among summer trees, And warm with dew at ooze from living blood! Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!—all good We’ll talk about—no more of dreaming.—Now, Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none; And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through, Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew? O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place; Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin’d: For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, And by another, in deep dell below, See, through the trees, a little river go All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. Honey from out the gnarled hive I’ll bring, And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,— Cresses that grow where no man may them see, And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw’d stag: Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, That thou mayst always know whither I roam, When it shall please thee in our quiet home To listen and think of love. Still let me speak; Still let me dive into the joy I seek,— For yet the past doth prison me. The rill, Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn, And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel’s barn. Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. Its sides I’ll plant with dew-sweet eglantine, And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. I will entice this crystal rill to trace Love’s silver name upon the meadow’s face. I’ll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire; And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre; To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear; To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, That I may see thy beauty through the night; To Flora, and a nightingale shall light Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods Of gold, and lines of Naiads’ long bright tress. Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness! Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be ’Fore which I’ll bend, bending, dear love, to thee: Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek, Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice, And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice: And that affectionate light, those diamond things, Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs, Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure? O that I could not doubt?” The mountaineer Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear His briar’d path to some tranquillity. It gave bright gladness to his lady’s eye, And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow; Answering thus, just as the golden morrow Beam’d upward from the vallies of the east: “O that the flutter of this heart had ceas’d, Or the sweet name of love had pass’d away. Young feather’d tyrant! by a swift decay Wilt thou devote this body to the earth: And I do think that at my very birth I lisp’d thy blooming titles inwardly; For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do! When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave To the void air, bidding them find out love: But when I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagin’d good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss,— Even then, that moment, at the thought of this, Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers, And languish’d there three days. Ye milder powers, Am I not cruelly wrong’d? Believe, believe Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave With my own fancies garlands of sweet life, Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife! I may not be thy love: I am forbidden— Indeed I am—thwarted, affrighted, chidden, By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. Twice hast thou ask’d whither I went: henceforth Ask me no more! I may not utter it, Nor may I be thy love. We might commit Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die; We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought! Enlarge not to my hunger, or I’m caught In trammels of perverse deliciousness. No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless, And bid a long adieu.” The Carian No word return’d: both lovelorn, silent, wan, Into the vallies green together went. Far wandering, they were perforce content To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree; Nor at each other gaz’d, but heavily Por’d on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves. Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves Me to behold thee thus in last extreme: Ensky’d ere this, but truly that I deem Truth the best music in a first-born song. Thy lute-voic’d brother will I sing ere long, And thou shalt aid—hast thou not aided me? Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity Has been thy meed for many thousand years; Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, Mourn’d as if yet thou wert a forester,— Forgetting the old tale. He did not stir His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays Through the old garden-ground of boyish days. A little onward ran the very stream By which he took his first soft poppy dream; And on the very bark ’gainst which he leant A crescent he had carv’d, and round it spent His skill in little stars. The teeming tree Had swollen and green’d the pious charactery, But not ta’en out. Why, there was not a slope Up which he had not fear’d the antelope; And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade He had not with his tamed leopards play’d. Nor could an arrow light, or javelin, Fly in the air where his had never been— And yet he knew it not. O treachery! Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye With all his sorrowing? He sees her not. But who so stares on him? His sister sure! Peona of the woods!—Can she endure— Impossible—how dearly they embrace! His lady smiles; delight is in her face; It is no treachery. “Dear brother mine! Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be? Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly; And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. Sure I will not believe thou hast such store Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. Be happy both of you! for I will pull The flowers of autumn for your coronals. Pan’s holy priest for young Endymion calls; And when he is restor’d, thou, fairest dame, Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame To see ye thus,—not very, very sad? Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad: O feel as if it were a common day; Free-voic’d as one who never was away. No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall Be gods of your own rest imperial. Not even I, for one whole month, will pry Into the hours that have pass’d us by, Since in my arbour I did sing to thee. O Hermes! on this very night will be A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; For the soothsayers old saw yesternight Good visions in the air,—whence will befal, As say these sages, health perpetual To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore, In Dian’s face they read the gentle lore: Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. Many upon thy death have ditties made; And many, even now, their foreheads shade With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. New singing for our maids shalt thou devise, And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen’s brows. Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse This wayward brother to his rightful joys! His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, To lure—Endymion, dear brother, say What ails thee?” He could bear no more, and so Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow, And twang’d it inwardly, and calmly said: “I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid! My only visitor! not ignorant though, That those deceptions which for pleasure go ’Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be: But there are higher ones I may not see, If impiously an earthly realm I take. Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake Night after night, and day by day, until Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me More happy than betides mortality. A hermit young, I’ll live in mossy cave, Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well; For to thy tongue will I all health confide. And, for my sake, let this young maid abide With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, Peona, mayst return to me. I own This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl, Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair! Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share This sister’s love with me?” Like one resign’d And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown: “Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, Of jubilee to Dian:—truth I heard! Well then, I see there is no little bird, Tender soever, but is Jove’s own care. Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware, Behold I find it! so exalted too! So after my own heart! I knew, I knew There was a place untenanted in it: In that same void white Chastity shall sit, And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. With sanest lips I vow me to the number Of Dian’s sisterhood; and, kind lady, With thy good help, this very night shall see My future days to her fane consecrate.” As feels a dreamer what doth most create His own particular fright, so these three felt: Or like one who, in after ages, knelt To Lucifer or Baal, when he’d pine After a little sleep: or when in mine Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends Who know him not. Each diligently bends Towards common thoughts and things for very fear; Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, By thinking it a thing of yes and no, That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last Endymion said: “Are not our fates all cast? Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair! Adieu!” Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, Walk’d dizzily away. Pained and hot His eyes went after them, until they got Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, In one swift moment, would what then he saw Engulph for ever. “Stay!” he cried, “ah, stay! Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say. Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. It is a thing I dote on: so I’d fain, Peona, ye should hand in hand repair Into those holy groves, that silent are Behind great Dian’s temple. I’ll be yon, At vesper’s earliest twinkle—they are gone— But once, once, once again—” At this he press’d His hands against his face, and then did rest His head upon a mossy hillock green, And so remain’d as he a corpse had been All the long day; save when he scantly lifted His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted With the slow move of time,—sluggish and weary Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary, Had reach’d the river’s brim. Then up he rose, And, slowly as that very river flows, Walk’d towards the temple grove with this lament: “Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall Before the serene father of them all Bows down his summer head below the west. Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, But at the setting I must bid adieu To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses; My kingdom’s at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe, What is there to plain of? By Titan’s foe I am but rightly serv’d.” So saying, he Tripp’d lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature’s holy countenance, Until that grove appear’d, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlihed Gave utterance as he entered: “Ha!” I said, “King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus’ tongue of doom, This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, And the Promethean clay by thief endued, By old Saturnus’ forelock, by his head Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed Myself to things of light from infancy; And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, Is sure enough to make a mortal man Grow impious.” So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found; Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown’d Beyond the reach of music: for the choir Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar Nor muffling thicket interpos’d to dull The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, Wan as primroses gather’d at midnight By chilly finger’d spring. “Unhappy wight! Endymion!” said Peona, “we are here! What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?” Then he embrac’d her, and his lady’s hand Press’d, saying:” Sister, I would have command, If it were heaven’s will, on our sad fate.” At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, To Endymion’s amaze: “By Cupid’s dove, And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!” And as she spake, into her face there came Light, as reflected from a silver flame: Her long black hair swell’d ampler, in display Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day Dawn’d blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld Her lucid bow, continuing thus; “Drear, drear Has our delaying been; but foolish fear Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate; And then ’twas fit that from this mortal state Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook’d for change Be spiritualiz’d. Peona, we shall range These forests, and to thee they safe shall be As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee To meet us many a time.” Next Cynthia bright Peona kiss’d, and bless’d with fair good night: Her brother kiss’d her too, and knelt adown Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, Before three swiftest kisses he had told, They vanish’d far away!—Peona went Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. THE END.
John Keats's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org