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.