Book Jl_05_.. COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT KEATS'S POEMS i? -6- Cabinet C'Uition I ll mu'wm mm tii m m m m m . m mm m w i fiumw m im m ami m man m m m mj « »ia m m m,i«i «- ■ «■ m »i< oojiaoaaaofljaiiijocoQoanopooa^ THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS Cabinet Cl;tittton Btberffi6c:Pr^ BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY (CbE 0iVJcr?ibE ^xzsSy €ambnb0e 55890 OCT 3 1900 copyright •ntry StCCND COPY. OROtH DIVISION, OCT 13 I90U .Foo COPYRIGHT, 1900 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY v PUBLISHEES' NOTE The editor of the Cambridge Edition of The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats made a careful examination of the volumes pub- lished by Keats during his life, and also of the posthumously published poems, with a view to securing an authoritative text. He also studied an arrangement of the poetical works which should be chronological as regards the body of his poetry, and should discriminate in a measure between his seri- ous and acknowledged work and his pastime. The arrangement and the text of this Cabinet Edition are those of the Cambridge, and the contents include the whole of Keats's verse. Autumn, 1900. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE EARLY POEMS. Imitation of Spenseb 1 On Death 2 To Chattebton 2 To Byron 3 ' Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain ' . . . . 3 To Some Ladies 5 On receiving- a Curious Shell and a Copy of Verses FROM the Same Ladies G Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison . 8 To Hope 8 Ode to Apollo 10 Hymn to Apollo 11 To A Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown ... 12 Sonnet : ' How many bards gild the lapses of time ' . . 13 Sonnet : ' Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there' 13 Spenserian Stanza, written at the Close op Canto II., Book V. , of ' The Faerie Queene ' 14 On leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour 14 On first looking into Chapman's Homer ' . 15 Epistle to George Felton Mathew 15 To : ' Hadst thou liv'd in days op old ' 18 Sonnet : ' As from the darkening gloom a silver dove ' 20 Sonnet to Solitude 20 Sonnet : ' To one who has been long in city pent ' . . 21 To a Friend who sent me Some Roses 21 Sonnet : ' Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve ' . . 22 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill' 22 Sleep and Poetry 29 Epistle to my Brother George 41 To my Brother George 45 To ' Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs ' 46 Specimen op an Induction to a Poem 46 Calidore : A Fragment 48 Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke 53 To My Brothers 57 Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon. I. ' Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ' . . 57 II. ' Highmindedness, a jealousy for good ' 58 viii TABLE OF CONTENTS To Kosciusko 58 To G. A. W 59 Stanzas : ' In a drear-nighted December '...... 59 Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition 60 Sonnet : ' Happy is England ! I could be content ' ... 61 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 61 Sonnet : ' After dark vapours ha\'e oppress'd our plains ' 62 Written on the Blank Space at the end of Chaucer's Tale of ' The Floure and the Lefe ' 62 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 63 To Haydon (^VITH the preceding sonnet) 63 To Leigh Hunt, Esq 64 On the Sea 64 Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen ' 65 On ' Think not op it, sweet one, so ' 65 On a Picture of Leander '.66 On Leigh Hunt's Poem ' The Story of Rimini ' .... 66 Sonnet : ' When I have fears that I may cease to be ' . 67 On seeing a Lock op Milton's Hair 67 On sitting down to read ' King Lear ' once again ... 69 Lines on the Mermaxd Tavern 69 Robin Hood 70 To the Nile 72 To Spenser 72 Song written on a Blank Page in Beaumont and Fletch- er's Works between ' Cupid's Revenge ' and ' The Two Noble Kinsmen' 73 Fragment : ' Welcome Joy and welcome Sorrow ' ... 74 What the Thrush said 75 Written in Answer to a Sonnet ending thus : — ' Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' ... 75 To John Hamilton Reynolds 70 The Human Seasons 76 ENDYMION 77 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819. Isabella, or the Pot of Basil 192 To Homer 209 Fragment op an Ode to Maia 209 Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! ' 210 Verses written during a Tour in Scotland. I. On Visiting the Tomb op Burns 211 II. To AiLSA Rock 211 III. Written in the Cottage where Buens was born . 212 IV. At Fingal's Cave 213 V. Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis 214 TABLE OF CONTENTS ix Translation from a Sonnet op Ronsard 215 To A Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall . . .215 Fancy 216 Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth ' 218 Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet dove died ' . . . .219 Ode on Melancholy 220 The Eve of St. Agnes 221 Ode on a Grecian Urn 234 Ode on Indolence 236 Sonnet : ' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell 238 Ode to Fanny 238 A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo and Francesca 240 La Belle Dame sans Merci 240 Chorus of Fairies 242 Faery Songs: I. Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 246 II. Ah ! WOE is me ! poor silver- wing ! 246 On Fame 247 Another on Fame 248 To Sleep 248 Ode to Psyche 249 Sonnet : ' If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd ' 251 Ode to a Nightingale 251 Lamia 254 DRAMAS. Otho the Great : a tragedy in five acts 275 King Stephen : A dramatic fragment 340 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 348 HYPERION : A FRAGMENT 352 TO AUTUMN 377 VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE. Sonnet : ' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone ' 379 Lines to Fanny 379 To Fanny : ' I cry your mercy — pity — love — aye, love ! ' 381 THE CAP AND BELLS ; OR, THE JEALOUSIES . . .382 THE LAST SONNET 410 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE. I. Hyperion : A Vision 411 II. Fragments. I. 'Where's the Poet? show him! show him' . 425 II. Modern Love 425 III. Fragment of 'The Castle Builder' . . . .426 TABLE OF CONTENTS IV. Extracts from an Opera. ' o ! were i one of the olympian twelve ' . 427 Daisy's Song 428 Folly's Song 428 ' O, I AM frighten' D WITH MOST HATEFUL thoughts ! ' 429 Song : ' The stranger lighted from his STEED ' 429 'Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!' 430 III. Familiar Verses. Stanzas to Miss Wylie 430 Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds 431 A Draught of Sunshine 434 At Teignmouth 435 The Devon Maid 43G Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats 437 Meg Merrilies 438 A Song about myself 439 To Thomas Keats 442 The Gadfly 443 On hearing the Bagpipe and seeing ' The Stranger ' PLAYED AT INVERARY 445 Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to BuRNs's Country 44G Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis 448 Sharing Eve's Apple 451 A Prophecy : to George Keats in America . . . 452 A Little Extempore 453 Spenserian Stanzas on Charlks Armitage Brown . 456 Two or three Posies 457 A Party of Lovers 458 To George Keats : written in sickness 458 On Oxford 459 To a Cat • . . 459 THE POEMS OF JOHN KEATS EARLY POEMS IMITATION OF SPENSER Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill ; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill ; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ; Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : There saw the swan his neck of arched snow. And oar'd himself along with majesty ; Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle That in that fairest lake had placed been, I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 2 EARLY POEMS For sure so fair a place was never seen, Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen Of the bright waters ; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean sky. And all around it dipp'd luxuriously Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, Which, as it were in gentle amity. Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried. Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. ON DEATH Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by ? The transient pleasures as a vision seem. And yet we think the greatest pain's to die. How strange it is that man on earth should roam. And lead a life of woe, but not forsake His rugged path ; nor dare he view alone His future doom, which is but to awake. TO CHATTERTON O Chatteeton ! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow — son of misery ! How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. WOMAN ! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE 3 How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half -blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past : thou art among the stars Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears. TO BYRON Bykon ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! Attuning still the soul to tenderness. As if soft Pity, with unusual stress. Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die. O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail. And like fair veins in sable marble flow ; Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe. 'WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN' Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; Without that modest softening that enhances The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 4 EARLY POEMS That its mild liglit creates to iieal again : E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances, E'en then my soul with exultation dances For that to love, so long, I 've dormant lain: But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender, Heavens ! how desperately do I adore Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Leander — Might I be lov'd by thee like these of yore. Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast. Are things on which the dazzled senses rest Till the fond, fixSd eyes forget they stare. From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd They be of what is worthy, — though not drest In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark. To catch the tunings of a voice divine. Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? Who can forget her half -re tiring sweets ? God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who intreats Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, TO SOME LADIES Her form seems floating palpable, and near : Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. TO SOME LADIES What though, while the wonders of nature ex- ploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend ; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend : Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes. Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews. Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling ? Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air. 'T is morn, and the flowers with dew are yet droop- ing, I see you are treading the verge of the sea : And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping To pick up the keepsake intended for me. If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven ; And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending. The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ; 6 EARLY POEMS It had not created a warmer emotion Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you ; Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean, Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure, (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,) To possess but a span of the hour of leisure. In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL AND A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain ? Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold ? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold ? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing ? Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is ? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing ? And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Brito- martis ? What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave, Embroidered with many a spring peering flower ? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower ? ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL 7 Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd ; Full many the glories that brighten thy youth ! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless, and to soothe. On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain : And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark : 't is the work of a fay ; Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away. And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish. There, oft would he bring from his soft- sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightin- gales listen'd ; The wondering spirits of heaven were mute. And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened. In this little dome, all those melodies strange, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh ; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change ; Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. And list to the tale pf the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. Adieu, valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crown'd ; Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers, to bless and to soothe. EARLY POEMS WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state. Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait ? Think you he nought hut prison-walls did see. Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key ? Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers ; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air : To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew ? TO HOPE When by my solitary hearth I sit. And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ; When no fair dreams before my ' mind's eye ' flit. And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed. And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray. Should sad Despondency my musings fright. And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof. And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. TO HOPE 9 Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Strive for her son to seize my careless heart ; When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, And fright him as the morning frightens night ! Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow : Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head ! Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, From cruel parents, or relentless fair ; O let me think it is not quite in vain To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honoiu- fade : O let me see our land retain her soul. Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. Great Liberty ! how great in plain attire 1 With the base purple of a court oppress'd, Bowing her head, and ready to expire : But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! And as, in sparkling maj esty, a star Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud lo EARLY POEMS Briglitening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar : So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. ODE TO APOLLO In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war, And even the western splendor warms, While the trumpets sound afar : But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes. Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre : The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — Enraptur'd dwells, — not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. 'T is awful silence then again ; Expectant stand the spheres ; Breathless the laurell'd peers. Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease. And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand. And quickly forward spring HYMN TO APOLLO ii The Passions — a terrific band — And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspir- ing words. A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'T is still ! Wild warblings from the iEolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased air. Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from Pleasure's lair : — Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love. But when Tfiou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on earth : The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, Great God of Bards, receive their hea- venly birth. HYMN TO APOLLO God of the golden bow, And of the golden lyre. And of the golden hair. And of the golden fire. Charioteer Of the patient year, Where — where slept thine ire, 12 EARLY POEMS When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath, Thy laurel, thy glory, The light of thy story, Or was I a worm — too low crawling, for death ? O Delphic Apollo ! The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd, The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd ; The eagle's feathery mane For wrath became stiff en'd — the sound Of breeding thunder Went drowsily under, Muttering to be unbound. O why didst thou pity, and for a worm Why touch thy soft lute Till the thunder was mute, Why was not I crush'd — such a pitiful germ ? O Delphic Apollo ! The Pleiades were up, Watching the silent air ; The seeds and roots in the Earth Were swelling for summer fare ; The Ocean, its neighbour. Was at its old labour. When, who — who did dare To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, And grin and look proudly, And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now ? O Delphic Apollo ? TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear From my glad bosom, — now from gloominess SONNET 13 I mount for ever — not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No ! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo ! who dares say, ' Do this ? ' Who dares call down My will from its high purpose ? Who say, ' Stand,' Or ' Go ? ' This mighty moment I would frown On abject Caesars — not the stoutest band Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand ! SONNET How many bards gild the lapses of time ! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or' sublime : And often, when I sit me down to rhyme. These will in throngs before my mind intrude : But no confusion, no disturbance rude Do they occasion ; 't is a pleasing chime. So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store ; The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves — The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, — and thousand others more, That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. SONNET Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry ; 14 EARLY POEMS The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare. Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimful of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found ; Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress, And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd ; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. SPENSERIAN STANZA WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF CANTO II. BOOK V. OF * THE FAERIE QUEENE ' In after-time, a sage of mickle lore Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took. And did refit his limbs as heretofore, And made him read in many a learned book. And into many a lively legend look ; Thereby in goodly themes so training him. That all his brutishness he quite forsook. When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim. The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim. ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear and far ; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen EPISTLE TO MATHEW 15 The silver strings of heavenly harp atween : And let there glide by many a pearly car, Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond j ar, And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears, And as it reaches each delicious ending, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres : For what a height my spirit is contending ! 'T is not content so soon to be alone. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Roimd many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song ; Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to view A fate more pleasing, a delight more true Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd i6 EARLY POEMS To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling Of all that 's high, and great, and good, and healing. Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee n Past each horizon of fine poesy ; Fain would I echo back each pleasant note As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted, Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : But 't is impossible ; far different cares Beckon me sternly from soft 'Lydian airs,' And hold my faculties so long in thrall. That I am oft in doubt whether at all 20 I shall again see Phoebus in the morning : Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning ! •Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; Or again witness what with thee I've seen. The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see : When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 30 But might I now each passing moment give To the coy Muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind. Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, That often must have seen a poet frantic ; Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 40 Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, EPISTLE TO MATHEW 17 And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, With its own drooping buds, but very white. Where on one side are covert branches hung, 'Mong which the nightingales have always simg In leafy quiet : where to pry, aloof Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, And where the bee with cowslip bells was wres- tling. 50 There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy. To say ' Joy not too much in all that's bloomy.' Yet this is vain — O Mathew, lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on. And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton ; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: 60 And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness. And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart 's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace. While to the rugged north our musing turns, 70 We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. Felton ! without incitements such as these. How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease : For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. And make ' a sunshine in a shady place : ' For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming wild, Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd, i8 EARLY POEMS Whence gush the streams of song : In happy hour Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 80 And, as for him some gift she was devising, Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee : how thou next didst seem A black-ey'd swan upon the widening stream ; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face : That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 90 And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands ; Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly hands. TO Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness In the very fane of lightness. Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning : In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky. Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow. Of thy dark hair, that extends Into many graceful bends : As the leaves of Hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. TO 19 Downward too flows many a tress With a glossy waviness ; 20 Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air. Add, too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice ; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd : With those beauties scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little loves that fly Round about with eager pry. 30 Saving when, with freshening lave. Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; Like twin water-lilies, born In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Now the Muses had been ten. Couldst thou wish for lineage higher Than twin-sister of Thalia ? At least for ever, evermore Will I call the Graces four. 40 Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high. Tell me what thou wouldst have been ? Ah ! I see the silver sheen Of thy broider'd, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast : Which, O heavens ! I should see, But that cruel destiny Has plac'd a golden cuirass there ; Keeping secret what is fair. 50 Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested Thy locks in knightly casque are rested : O'er which bend four milky plumes Like the gentle lily's blooms Springing from a costly vase. 20 EARLY POEMS See with what a stately pace Comes thine alabaster steed ; Servant of heroic deed ! O'er his loins his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. 60 Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath ! Sign of the enchanter's death ; Bane of every wicked spell ; Silencer of dragon's yell, Alas ! thou this wilt never do : Thou art an enchantress too, And wilt surely never spill Blood of those whose eyes can kill. SONNET As from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that nought moves but pure delight. So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love ; Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire, Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air On holy message sent — What pleasure 's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ? SONNET TO SOLITUDE O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep, — Nature's observatory, — whence the dell, TO A FRIEND 21 Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. But though I '11 gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. SONNET To one who has been long in city pent, 'T is very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with hearts content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment ? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by : E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently. TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES As late I rambled in the happy fields. What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert ; when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields : 22 EARLY POEMS I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd : But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me, My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd : Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd. SONNET Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west, And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds, far — far away to leave All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve From little cares ; to find, with easy quest, A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest, And there into delight my soul deceive, There warm my breast with patriotic lore. Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — Till their stern forms before my mind arise : Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. 'I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL' ' Places of nestling green, for poets made.' Leigh Hunt, The Story of Rimini. I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, y The air was cooling, and so very still ^ I STOOD TIPTOE 23 That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly -leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 10 A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye To peer about upon variety ; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley, never-ending ; 20 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted, And many pleasures to my vision started ; So I straightway began to pluck a posey Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. A bush of May flowers with the bees about them ; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ; 30 And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined. And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 24 EARLY POEMS That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 40 Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters The spreading blue-bells : it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds. Ye ardent marigolds ! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, For great Apollo bids 50 That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung ; And when again your dewiness he kisses, Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : So haply when I rove in some far vale. His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things. To bind them all about with tiny rings. 60 Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend ; Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 70 A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, I STOOD TIPTOE 25 To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle "With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain ; But turn your eye, and they are there again. 80 The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, And moisture, that the bowery green may live : So keeping up an interchange of favours, Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low-hung branches ; little space they stop ; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 90 Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away. Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning away the dandelion's down ; Than the light music of her nimble toes Patting against the sorrel as she goes. How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought. 100 O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half -smiling lips, and downward look ; O let me for one moment touch her wrist ; Let me one moment to her breathing list ; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap no 26 EARLY POEMS Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light. O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120 Lover of loneliness, and wandering. Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories. For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? In the calm grandeur of a sober line, We see the waving of the mountain pine ; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 130 When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-briar. And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles Charms us at once away from all our troubles : So that we feel uplifted from the world. Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd. So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went 141 On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips First touch'd ; what amorous and fondling nips They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder, — The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder : I STOOD TIPTOE 27 Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 150 So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside, That we might look into a forest wide, To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor Nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 160 Along the reedy stream ; a half -heard strain, Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? In some delicious ramble, he had found A little space, with boughs all woven round ; And in the midst of all, a clearer pool Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool. The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 170 And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride. Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness. To woo its own sad image into nearness : Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ; Nor was it long ere he had told the tale Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 180 Where had he been, from whose warm head out- flew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, 28 EARLY POEMS That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly sing- ing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 190 Into some wond'rous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion ! He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 200 The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate : So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won. And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! 210 Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phcfibus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels, And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear, That men of health were of unusual cheer ; SLEEP AND POETRY 29 Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal : And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 220 The breezes were ethereal, and pure. And crept through half closed lattices to cure The languid sick ; it cool'd their fever'd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear-eyed : nor burnt with thirsting^ Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare. And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 230 Young men and maidens at each other gaz'd, With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. Therefore no lover did of anguish die : But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : 240 Was there a Poet born ? — But now no more, My wand' ring spirit must no further soar. SLEEP AND POETRY As I lay in my bed slepe full umnete Was unto me, but why that I ne might Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight (As I suppose) had more of hertis ese Than T, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. Chaucer. What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 30 EARLY POEMS That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? More secret than a nest of nightingales ? More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? More full of visions than a high romance ? lo What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes 1 Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes That glance so brightly at the new sunrise. But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 20 More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle ? What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? It has a glory, and nought else can share it : The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, Chasing away all worldliness and folly : Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder. Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; And sometimes like a gentie whispering , Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing 30 That breathes about us in the vacant air ; So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning ; And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymn- ing; To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, That is to crown our name when life is ended. SLEEP AND POETRY 31 Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! rejoice ! Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, And die away in ardent mutteriugs. 40 No one who once the glorious sun has seen, And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean For his great Maker's presence, but must know What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow : Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, By telling what he sees from native merit. O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen. That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel Upon some mountain-top until I feel 50 A growing splendour round about me hung. And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen. That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smoothed for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo 60 Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 't will bring to me the fair Visions of all places : a bowery nook Will be elysium — an eternal book Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; And many a verse from so strange influence That we must ever wonder how, and whence 70 It came. Also imaginings will hover 32 EARLY POEMS Round my fire-side, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot. Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, Write on my tablets all that was permitted, All that was for our human senses fitted. 80 Then the events of this wide world I 'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality. Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 90 The reading of an ever-changing tale ; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm. O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy ; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. Then I will pass the countries that I see In long perspective, and continually 100 Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, Feed upon apples red, and strawberries. And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ; Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, • To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — SLEEP AND POETRY 33 Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white Into a pretty shrinking with a bite As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, A lovely tale of human life we '11 read. no And one will teach a tame dove how it best May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; Another, bending o'er her nimble tread. Will set a green robe floating round her head, And still will dance with ever-varied ease. Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : Another will entice me on, and on Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; Till in the bosom of a leafy world We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 120 In the recesses of a pearly shell. And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with sprightly 130 Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ; And now I see them on a green-hill's side In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear. Passing along before a dusky space Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 140 Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep : 34 EARLY POEMS Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; Some with their faces muffled to the ear Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom. Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 150 And now broad wings. Most awfully intent The driver of those steeds is forward bent, And seems to listen : O that I might know All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. The visions all are fled — the car is fled Into the light of heaven, and in their stead A sense of real things comes doubly strong, And, like a muddy stream, would bear along My soul to nothingness : but I will strive Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 160 The thought of that same chariot, and the strange Journey it went. Is there so small a range In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds. Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us all ? From the clear space of ether, to the small Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the mean- ing Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 170 Of April meadows ? here her altar shone, E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon The fervid choir that lifted up a noise Of harmony, to where it aye will poise Its mighty self of convoluting sound, Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, SLEEP AND POETRY 35 Eternally around a dizzy void ? Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd With honours ; nor had any other care Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. 180 Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, Made great Apollo blush for this his land. Men were thought wise who could not understand His glories : with a puling infant's force They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 190 Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious : beauty was awake ! Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile : so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 200 Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! That blasphem'd the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it, — no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepid standard out, Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large The name of one Boileau ! O ye whose charge It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! Whose congregated majesty so fills My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 210 So near those common folk ; did not their shames 36 EARLY POEMS Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames Delight you ? did ye never cluster round Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu To regions where no more the laurel grew ? Or did ye stay to give a welcoming To some lone spirits who could proudly sing Their youth away, and die ? 'T was even so: But let me think away those times of woe : 220 Now 't is a fairer season ; ye have breathed Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard In many places ; — some has been upstirr'd From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, Nested and quiet in a valley mild, Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild About the earth : happy are ye and glad. These things are, doubtless ; yet in truth we 've had 230 Strange thunders from the potency of song ; Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong From maj esty : but in clear truth the themes Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower Of light is Poesy ; 't is the supreme of power ; 'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right arm. The very archings of her eyelids charm A thousand willing agents to obey. And still she governs with the mildest sway : 240 But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn. Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end Of Poesy, that it should be a friend To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. SLEEP AND POETRY 37 Yet I re j oice : a myrtle fairer than E'er grow in Paplios, from the bitter weeds Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 250 A silent space with ever sprouting green. All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. Then let us clear away the choking thorns From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown With simple flowers: let there nothing be More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 260 Nought more ungentle than the placid look Of one who leans upon a closed book ; Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes ! As she was wont, th' imagination Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, And they shall be accounted poet kings Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. O may these joys be ripe before I die. Will not some say that I presumptuously 270 Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 'T were better far to hide my foolish face ? That whining boyhood should with reverence bow Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? How ! If I do hide myself, it sure shall be In the very fane, the light of Poesy : If I do fall, at least I will be laid Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 280 But off, Despondence ! miserable bane ! They should not know thee, who athirst to gain A noble end, are thirsty every hour. What though I am not wealthy in the dower 38 EARLY POEMS Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow Hither and thither all the changing thoughts Of man : though no great minist'ring reason sorts Out the dark mysteries of human souls To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 290 A vast idea before me, and I glean Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've seen The end and aim of Poesy. 'T is clear As anything most true ; as that the year Is made of the four seasons — manifest As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest. Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I Be but the essence of deformity, A coward, did my very eyelids wink At speaking out what I have dared to think. 300 Ah ! rather let me like a madman run Over some precipice ; let the hot sun Melt my Daedalian wings, and drive me down Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an inward frown Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! Ere I can have explored its widenesses. Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees, 310 1 could unsay those — no, impossible ! Impossible ! For sweet relief I '11 dwell On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay Begun in gentleness die so away. E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honour ; brotherhood, And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 320 SLEEP AND POETRY 39 The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; And when they 're come, the very pleasant rout : The message certain to be done to-morrow. 'T is perhaps as well that it should be to bor- row Some precious book from out its snug retreat, To cluster round it when we next shall meet. Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling. 330 And with these airs come forms of elegance Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round Parting luxuriant curls : — and the swift bound Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio. Things such as these are ever harbingers To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 340 Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : A linnet starting all about the bushes : A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted With over pleasure — many, many more, Might I indulge at large in all my store Of luxuries : yet I must not forget Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : For what there may be worthy in these rhymes I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 350 Of friendly voices had just given place To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. It was a poet's house who keeps the keys Of pleasiue's temple. Round about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung 40 EARLY POEMS In other ages — cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts To clear Futurity his darling fame ! Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 360 At swelling apples with a frisky leap And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane Of liny marble, and thereto a train Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they meet Over the trippings of a little child : And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 370 Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'er Its rocky marge, and balances once more The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam Feel all about their undulating home. 380 Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown Of over-thinking had that moment gone From off her brow, and left her all alone. Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes. As if he always listened to the sighs Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's, worn By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green. Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean 390 EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 41 His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! For over them was seen a free display Of outspread wings, and from between them shone The face of Poesy : from off her throne She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. The very sense of where I was might well Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that there came Thought after thought to nourish up the flame Within my breast ; so that the morning light Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 40. And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, Resolving to begin that very day These lines ; and howsoever they be done, I leave them as a father does his son. EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE Full many a dreary hour have I past. My brain bewilder' d, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness ; in seasons when I 've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays ; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch' d supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : That I should never hear Apollo's song. Though feathery clouds were floating all along 10 The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen : That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me : That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slant- ing Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 42 EARLY POEMS But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ; 20 A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy. It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ; And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call. Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poefs ear. When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals : Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun ; 40 And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star. Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers, Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; And 't is right just, for well Apollo knows 'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose. All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50 When he upswimmeth from the coral caves. And sports with half his tail above the waves. These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 43 Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue, With all its diamonds trembling through and through ? Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 60 And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight — The revelries, and mysteries of ni,^ht: And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. These are the living pleasures of the bard : But richer far posterity's award. What does he murmur with his lairst breath, While his proud eye looks th:ough the film of death ? 70 'What though I leave this dull a'^; i earthl^ '■► -^iil'^ Yet shall my spirit lofty converse : Ul . With after times. — The patriot si m i^>. My stern alarum, and unsheath his stee! . Or in the senate thunder out my ;turabe^ i To startle princes from their easy alumbc The sage will mingle with each r-ioral the. My happy thoughts sententious ; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire him. 80 Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on tieir bridal night. Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their genti^ limbs with pby, And form'd a snowy circle on ti. grass, And plac'd in midst of all that io vely lass Who chosen is their queen, —with her fine bead Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red : ,44 EARLY POEMS For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying ; 90 Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes A little book, — and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes : For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; One that I foster'd in my youthful years : The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep. Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 100 Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! Thy dales and hills ai(u faaing^from my view : Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. Full joy 1 feel, while thus I cleave the air, That njy S'..[t verse will charm tliy daughters fair. And warm thy sons ! ' Ah, my dear friend and . her, ; once, my mad ambition smother, no ; joys like these, sure I should be nd dearer to society. 1 is true, I've felt relief from pain .'J bright thought has darted through my brain : Through all that dty T 've felt a greater pleasure Than if I 'd brough: to light a hidden treasure. As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employ- ment 120 Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, thy freshest breeze I caught. TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 45 E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly towers Above the ocean waves. The stalks and blades Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats ; So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 130 And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple, and green ; Now 't is I see a canvass'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest. And the broad- winged sea-^all jcver at rest ; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea. Now I direct my eyes into the west. Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 140 Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say adieu ! 'T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you ! TO MY BROTHER GEORGE Many the wonders I this day have seen : The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurell'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green. Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, -Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. 46 EARLY POEMS But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? TO Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart ; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprise : But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I '11 gather some by spells, and incantation. SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days : But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude. We must think rather, that in playful mood. Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight. To show this wonder of its gentle might. ic Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION 47 Athwart the morning air ; some lady sweet, Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet, From the worn top of some old battlement Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent : And from her own pure self no joy dissembling. Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take. It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 20 With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, And his tremendous hand is grasping it. And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honours of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 30 No, no ! this is far off : — then how shall I Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy, Which linger yet about long gothic arches, In dark green ivy, and among wild larches ? How sing the splendour of the revelries, When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees ? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Beneath the shade of stately banneral. Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 40 Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens : Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ? Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 48 EARLY POEMS Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, And come like a clear sunrise to my mind ; 50 And always does my heart with pleasure dance, When I think on thy noble countenance ; Where never yet was ought more earthly seen Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps : or if thy tender care, Thus startled unaware. Be jealous that the foot of other wight Should madly follow that bright path of light 60 Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas ; he will speak. And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; That I will follow with due reverence. And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope : The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flow- ers ; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. CALIDORE A FRAGMENT Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave ; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean i So elegantly o'er the waters' brim And show their blossoms trim. \ CALIDORE 49 Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swal- low, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone. And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, 20 And glides into a bed of water-lilies : Broad-leav'd are they, and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew. Near to a little island's point they grew ; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains : but no breathing man With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 30 Objects that look'd out so invitingly On either side. These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before. The sidelong view of swelling leafiness. Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress ; Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings. The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around, 40 Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. The little chapel, with the cross above, Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the white dove, That on the windows spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 50 EARLY POEMS Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake ; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show- Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the cat's wild eyes, or the silvery stems 50 Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems A little brook. The youth had long been view- ing These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was fraught With many joys for him: the warder's ken Had found white coursers prancing in the glen ; Friends very dear to him he soon will see ; So pushes off his boat most eagerly. And soon upon the lake he skims along, 60 Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly : His spirit flies before him so completely. And now he turns a jutting point of land, Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand : Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, Before the point of his light shallop reaches Those marble steps that through the water dip : Now over them he goes with hasty trip. And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors : 70 Anon he leaps along the oaken floors Of halls and corridors. Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things That float about the air on azure wings, Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang. Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain, Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein ; CALIDORE SI While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss, What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 8i How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd ! Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, While whisperings of affection Made him delay to let their tender feet Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent : And whether there were tears of languishment, Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 90 With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, All the soft luxury That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, Fair as some wonder out of fairy land, Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : And this he fondled with his happy cheek, As if for 3 oy he would no further seek ; When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond Came to his ear, like something from beyond 100 His present being : so he gently drew His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new, From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, Thank'd Heaven that his joy was never ending ; While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd A hand Heaven made to succoiu- the distress'd ; A hand that from the world's bleak promontory Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair no Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal A man of elegance, and stature tall : So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild ash-tree, 52 EARLY POEMS Or as the winged cap of Mercury. His armour was so dexterously wrought In shape, that sure no living man had thought It hard, and heavy steel : but that indeed It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, In which a spirit new come from the skies 120 Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 'T is the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert, Said the good man to Calidore alert ; While the young warrior with a step of grace Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face. And mailed hand held out, ready to greet The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat Of the aspiring boy ; who as he led Those smiling ladies, often turned his head To admire the visor arched so gracefully 130 Over a knightly brow ; while they went by The lamps that from the high-roof d hall were pen- dent, And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated ; The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clam- ber. To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, Gladdening in the free, and airy feel Of a light mantle ; and while Clerimond 140 Is looking round about him with a fond And placid eye, young Calidore is burning To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm From lovely woman ; while brimful of this, He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, And had such manly ardour in his eye, That each at other look'd half-staringly ; EPISTLE TO C. C. CLARKE 53 And then their features started into smiles, 150 Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. Softly the breezes from the forest came, Softly they blew aside the taper's flame ; Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower ; Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower ; Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone ; Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, As that of busy spirits when the portals Are closing in the west ; or that soft humming 160 We hear around when Hesperus is coming. Sweet be their sleep. . . . EPISTLE TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning. And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning ; He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. 10 But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; For down they rush as though they would be free. And drop like hours into eternity. Just like that bird am I in loss of time. Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 54 EARLY POEMS Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 20 By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see "Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, And little fit to please a classic ear ; Because my wine was of too poor a savour For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour Of sparkling Helicon : — small good it were To take him to a desert rude, and bare, Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease, "While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 30 That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook, And lovely Una in a leafy nook. And Archimago leaning o'er his book : Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and seen, From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen ; From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania, 40 To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks With him who elegantly chats and talks — The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you stories Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories ; Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city. And tearful ladies made for love, and pity: With many else which I have never known. Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 50 For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. Nor should I now, but that I 've known you long ; That you first taught me all the sweets of song : EPISTLE TO C. C. CLARKE 55 The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. And float along like birds o'er summer seas : Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender- ness. Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 60 Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram. The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? Show'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring ? You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell ; 70 The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell Upon a tyrant's head. Ah ! had I never seen, Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears ? And can I e'er these benefits forget ? And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? No, doubly no ; — yet should these rhymings please, I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease ; For I have long time been my fancy feeding 80 With hopes that you would one day think the read- ing Ot my rough verses not an hour misspent ; Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires In lucent Thames reflected : — warm desires To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness And morning shadows streaking into slimness, 56 EARLY POEMS Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter ; To feel the air that plays about the hills, 90 And sips its freshness from the little rills ; To see high, golden corn wave in the light When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white. As though she were reclining in a bed Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures. Than I began to think of rhymes and measures ; The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write ! thou wilt never have a better day.' 100 And so I did. When many lines I 'd written. Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I 'd better Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. Such an attempt required an inspiration Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been Verses from which the soul would never wean ; But many days have past since last my heart Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart ; no By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd ; Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd : What time you were before the music sitting, And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes That freshly terminate in open plains. And revell'd in a chat that ceased not When at night-fall among your books we got : No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 120 No, nor till cordially you shook my hand Mid- way between our homes : — your accents bland Still sounded in my ears, when I no- more Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor. ADDRESSED TO B. R. HAYDON 57 Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain. In those still moments I have wish'd you joys That well you know to honour : — ' Life's very toys With him,' said I, 'will take a pleasant charm ; It cannot be that ought will work him harm.' 130 These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might : — Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good night. TO MY BROTHERS Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, Upon the lore so voluble and deep. That aye at fall of night our care condoles. This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rej oice That thus it passes smoothly, quietly : Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world's true joys, — ere the great Voice, From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly. ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON I Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake. 58 EARLY POEMS Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake. Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : And lo ! — whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come ; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings in the human mart ? Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. II HiGHMiNDEDNESS, a jcalousy for good, A loving-kindness for the great man's fame. Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a ' singleness of aim,' That ought to frighten into hooded shame A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. How glorious this affection for the cause Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly ! What when a stout unbending champion awes Envy, and Malice to their native sty ? Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, Proud to behold him in his country's eye. TO KOSCIUSKO ^ Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; It comes upon us like the glorious pealing Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, STANZAS 59 Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. It tells me too, that on a happy day. When some good spirit walks upon the earth, Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away To where the great God lives for evermore. TO G. A. W. Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance, In what diviner moments of the day Art thou most lovely ? When gone far astray Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? Or when serenely wand' ring in a trance Of sober thought ? Or when starting away. With careless robe, to meet the morning ray, Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ? Haply 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly, And so remain, because thou listenest : But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best. I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly Trips it before Apollo than the rest. STANZAS In a drear-nighted December Too happy, happy tree. Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity : The north cannot undo them. With a sleety whistle through them Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. 6o EARLY POEMS In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah ! would 't were so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writh'd not at passed joy ? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it. Was never said in rhyme. WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF VULGAR SUPERSTITION The church bells toll a melancholy round. Calling the people to some other prayers. Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound In some black spell ; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs. And converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp — A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp ; That 't is their sighing, wailing ere they go Into oblivion ; — that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp. GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 6i SONNET Happy is England ! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own ; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent : Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their sing- ing, And float with them about the summer waters. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET The poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees; a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done With his delights ; for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost. The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 62 EARLY POEMS SONNET After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day- Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May ; The eyelids with the passing coolness play. Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us ; as, of leaves Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — Autu^nn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's breath, — The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs, — A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF 'THE FLOURE AND THE LEFE' This pleasant tale is like a little copse : The honied lines so freshly interlace, To keep the reader in so sweet a place, •So that he here and there full-hearted stops ; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face. And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh ! what a power has white simplicity! What mighty power has this gentle story ! I, that do ever feel athirst for glory. Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. TO HAYDON 63 ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES My spirit is too weak — mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain Bring round the heart an indescribable feud ; So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude "Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main — A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. TO HAYDON (with the preceding sonnet) Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak Definitively of these mighty things ; Forgive me, that I have not Eagle's wings — That what I want I know not where to seek : And think that I would not be over meek, In rolling out upfollow'd thunderings, Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, Were I of ample strength for such a freak — Think too, that all those numbers should be thine ; Whose else ? In this who touch thy vesture's hem? For when men star'd at what was most divine With browless idiotism — o'erwise phlegm — Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine Of their star in the East, and gone to worship them. 64 EARLY POEMS TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. [a dedication] Glory and loveliness have pass'd away ; For if we wander ont in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east, to meet the smiling day : No crowd of nymphs soft-voic'd and young, and gay, In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn The shrine of Flora in her early May. But there are left delights as high as these, And I shall ever bless my destiny. That in a time, when under pleasant trees Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, A leafy luxury, seeing I could please With these poor offerings, a man like thee. ON THE SEA It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be mov'd for days from where it sometime fell, . When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. O ye ! who have your eyeballs vex'd and tir'd, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea ; O ye ! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody, — Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired ! ON 65 LINES Unfelt, unheard, unseen, I 've left my little queen, Her languid arms in silver slumber lying : Ah ! through their nestling touch, Who — who could tell how much There is for madness — cruel, or complying ? Those faery lids how sleek ! Those lips how moist ! — they speak. In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds : Into my fancy's ear Melting a burden dear, How ' Love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.' True ! — tender monitors ! I bend unto your laws : This sweetest day for dalliance was born 1 So, without more ado, I '11 feel my heaven anew. For all the blushing of the hasty mom. ON Think not of it, sweet one, so ; - Give it not a tear ; Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go Any — any where. Do not look so sad, sweet one, — Sad and fadingly ; Shed one drop, then it is gone,' Oh ! 't was born to die ! Still so pale ? then dearest weep Weep, I '11 count the tears, 66 EARLY POEMS For each will I invent a bliss For thee in after years. Brighter has it left thine eyes Than a sunny rill ; And thy whispering melodies Are more tender still. Yet — as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses ; E'en let us too ; but be our dirge A dirge of kisses. ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 'T is young Leander toiling to his death ; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. O hoiTid dream ! see how his body dips Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile ; He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, 'THE STORY OF RIMINI' Who loves to peer up at the morning sun. With half -shut eyes and comfortable cheek. Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek For meadows where the little rivers run ; ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR 67 Who loves to linger with that brightest one Of Heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly speak These numbers to the night, and starlight meek, Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. He who knows these delights, and too is prone To moralize upon a smile or tear, Will find at once a region of his own, A bower for his spirit, and will steer To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone, Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear. SONNET When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean' d my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charactry, Hold like rich garners the full -ri pen' d grain ; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! That I shall never look upon thee more. Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love ; — then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR Chief of organic numbers ! Old Scholar of the Spheres ! Thy spirit never slumbers, But rolls about our ears, For ever and for ever ! O what a mad endeavour Worketh he. 68 EARLY POEMS Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse And melody. How heavenward thou soundest, Live Temple of sweet noise, And Discord unconfoundest, Giving Delight new joys, And Pleasure nobler pinions ! O, where are thy dominions ? Lend thine ear To a young Delian oath, — ay, by thy soul. By all that from thy mortal lips did roll. And by the kernel of thine earthly love. Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, I swear ! When every childish fashion Has vanish' d from my rhyme, Will I, grey -gone in passion. Leave to an after-time, Hymning and harmony Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life ; But vain is now the burning and the strife, Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife With old Philosophy, And mad with glimpses of futurity ! For many years my offering must be hush'd ; When I do speak, I '11 think upon this hour, Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd. Even at the simplest vassal of thy power, — A lock of thy bright hair — Sudden it came. And I was startled, when I caught thy name Coupled so unaware ; Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood. I thought I had beheld it from the flood. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 69 ON SITTING DOWN TO READ 'KING LEAR' ONCE AGAIN O GOLDEN-TONGUED RomancG, with serene lute ! Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far away ! Leave melodizing on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute : Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute. Betwixt damnation and impassion' d clay, ' Must I burn through ; once more humbly assay The bitter sweet of this Shakespearean fruit: Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, Begetters of our deep eternal theme ! When through the old oak forest I am gone, Let me not wander in a barren dream, But when I am consumed in the Fire, Give me new Phcenix-wings to fly at my desire. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone. What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine ? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison ? O generous food ! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, 70 EARLY POEMS Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? ROBIN HOOD TO A FRIEND No ! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years : Many times have Winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more ; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill ; There is no mid -for est laugh. Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. ROBIN HOOD 71 On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, 20 Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold ; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent ; 30 For he left the merry tale. Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din ; Gone, the song of Gamely n ; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the ' grene shawe ; ' All are gone away and past ! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have 40 Once again her forest days. She would weep, and he would craze : He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes. Have rotted on the briny seas ; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her — strange ! that honey Can't be got without hard money ! So it is ; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string ! 50 Honour to the bugle horn ! Honour to the woods unshorn ! Honour to the Lincoln green ! Honour to the archer keen ! 72 EARLY POEMS Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon ! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood ! Honour to Maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan ! 60 Though their days have hurried by. Let us two a burden try. TO THE NILE Son of the old moon-mountains African 1 Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile ! We call thee fruitful, and that very while A desert fills our seeing' s inward span ; Nurse of swart nations since the world began, Art thou so fruitful ? or dost thou beguile Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil. Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan ? O may dark fancies err ! They surely do ; 'T is ignorance that makes a barren waste Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too. And to the sea as happily dost haste. TO SPENSER Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But Elfin Poet, 't is impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. SONG 73 It is impossible to escape from toil O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming : Be with me in the summer days, and I Will for thine honour and his pleasure try. SONG WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE IN BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER'S WORKS, BETWEEN * CUPID'S REVENGE* AND 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN' Spirit here that reignest ! Spirit here that painest 1 Spirit here that burnest ! Spirit here that mournest ! Spirit, I bow My forehead low, Enshaded with thy pinions. Spirit, I look All passion-struck Into thy pale dominions. Spirit here that laughest ! Spirit here that quaff est! Spirit here that dance st ! Noble soul that prancest ! Spirit, with thee I join in the glee A-nudging the elbow of Momus. Spirit, I flush With a Bacchanal blush Just fresh from the Banquet of Comus. 74 EARLY POEMS FRAGMENT Under the flag Of each his faction, they to battle bring Their embryo atoms. Milton. Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather ; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together ! I love to mark sad faces in fair weather ; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder ; Fair and foul I love together. Meadows sweet where flames are under, And a giggle at a wonder ; Visage sage at pantomime ; Funeral, and steeple-chime ; Infant playing with a skull ; Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull ; Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ; Serpents in red roses hissing ; Cleopatra regal-dress'd "With the aspic at her breast ; Dancing music, music sad. Both together, sane and mad ; Muses bright, and muses pale ; Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ; — Laugh and sigh, and laugh again ; Oh, the sweetness of the pain ! Muses bright and muses pale, Bare your faces of the veil ; Let me see ; and let me write Of the day, and of the night — Both together : — let me slake All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! Let my bower be of yew, Interwreath'd with myrtles new : Pines and lime-trees full in bloom. And my couch a low grass-tomb. IN ANSWER TO A SONNET 75 WHAT THE THRUSH SAID O Tiiou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. O thou, whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on Night after night when Phoebus was away, To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. O fret not after knowledge — I have none. And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge — I have none. And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS: — ' Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' By J. H. Reynolds. Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the domain Of Cynthia, — the wide palace of the sun, — The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, — The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun. Blue ! 'T is the life of waters — ocean And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. Blue ! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, — Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet : what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how great, When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate ! 76 EARLY POEMS TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS O THAT a week could be an age, and we Felt parting and warm meeting every week ; Then one poor year a thousand years would be, The flush of welcome ever on the cheek : So could we live long life in little space, So time itself would be annihilate. So a day's journey in oblivious haze To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind ! To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant ! In little time a host of joys to bind, And keep our souls in one eternal pant ! This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught Me how to harbor such a happy thought. THE HUMAN SEASONS FouK Seasons fill the measure of the year ; There are four seasons in the mind of man : He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span : He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He f urleth close ; contented so to look On mists in idleness — to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature. Or else he would forego his mortal nature. I ENDYMION: PREFACE 77 ENDYMION •The stretched metre of an antique song.' Shakspeare's Sonnets. INSCRIBED WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET AND WITH 'A BOWED MIND* TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, THOMAS CHATTERTON PREFACE Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish at- tempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their pass- ing the press ; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good ; — it will not : the foundations are too sandy. It is 3 ust that this youngster should die away : a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment : but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it : he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look 78 ENDYMION with a zealous eye, to the honour of English litera- ture. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the ma- ture imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a fer- ment, the character undecided, the way of life un- certain, the ambition thick-sighted : thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its bright- ness :' for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell. Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. 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 breath- ing. 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'cr-darkcn'd ways lo 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, BOOK FIRST 79 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 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 30 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 't is 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 valleys : so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 40 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 j uicy stalks, I '11 smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours. With streams that deepen freslily into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimni'd and white, 50 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. 8o ENDYMION See it half -finish' d : but let Autuma 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 60 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'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens 70 Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. Among the shepherds, 't was 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 : aye great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, 80 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. Edged 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. i BOOK FIRST 8i Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress 90 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 't was 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 100 Gave temperate sweets to that well Avooing 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 pulsed 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 ; no "Who gathering round the altar seem'd 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 valleys, — ere their death, o'er- taking 120 The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as we Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd light Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 82 ENDYMION Plainer and plainer showing, 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 : 130 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, overbrimm'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 ; 140 Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly : Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground. And some kept up a shrilly mcillow sound With ebon-tipped flutes : close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with minist'ring looks : alway his eye 150 Steadfast 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 160 BOOK FIRST 83 Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, Up-follow'd 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, Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 170 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 180 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 ranged, Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed 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, 190 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 ! 84 ENDYMION Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains ; whether come From valleys where the pipe is never dumb ; 200 Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs Blue harebells 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 for- lorn 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 fostel- up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 210 Will put choice honey for a favour' d 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 220 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 v/ere crackling in the fragrant pile. And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 230 Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang : BOOK FIRST 85 ' 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 240 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 250 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, 260 By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine ! ' Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service ; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; Or upward ragged precipices flit 86 ENDYMION To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again \ Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 270 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 280 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-swo6ning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors : Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge — see. Great son of Dryope, 290 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 ; 300 An element filling the space between ; An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen BOOK FIRST S7 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, Conj ure 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 linger'd in the air like dying rolls Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 310 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 Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead. But in old marbles ever beautiful. High genitors, unconscious did they cull 320 Time's sweet first-fruits — they danced to weari- ness. 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, 330 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 88 ENDYMION And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her lovely young Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 340 Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, And very, very deadliness did nip Her motherly cheeks. Aroused 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, 350 Spangling those million poutings of the brine With quivering ore : 't was 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 increased The silvery setting of their mortal star. There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 360 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 minist'ring the potent rule of fate With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations ; To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, A world of other unguess'd offices. 370 Anon they wander' d, by divine converse, Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse Each one his own anticipated bliss. One felt heart-certain that he could not miss BOOK FIRST 89 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: 380 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, 390 Benighted, close they huddled from the cold. And shared 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, 400 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. 90 ENDYMION And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade 410 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, 420 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, 430 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, 440 And the tanu'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 BOOK FIRST 91 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 450 Down in the bluebells, or a wren light rustling Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard. O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird. That brood est o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfined Restraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves And moonlight ; aye, to all the mazy world 460 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, 470 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 : 479 Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll Around the breathed boar : again I '11 poll The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow : And, when the pleasant sun is getting low. 92 ENDYMION Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead To tiear 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 piu-e sorrow-drops with glad exclaim, 490 And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. 'T was 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 499 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 ? 510 Thy deathf ul 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 ! — BOOK FIRST 93 Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 520 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, 530 Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 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, 540 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 tighten up the golden reins, 550 And paces leisurely down amber plains His snorting four. Now when his chariot last Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 94 ENDYMION 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, Mor- pheus, In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 560 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, 570 And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous swim : And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 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 ; 580 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 steadfast 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, BOOK FIRST 95 And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge ; 590 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 raised 600 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 ; 610 Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun Such foUying 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 620 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 96 ENDYMION Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 'T is blue, and over-spangled with a million Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed 630 Over the darkest, lushest bluebell 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 ! 't was too much ; Methought I fainted at the charaied touch, Yet held my recollection, even as one Who dives three fathoms where the waters run Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 640 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 gray time has scoop'd Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 650 There hollow sounds aroused 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 't was 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. 660 Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dared 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 BOOK FIRST 97 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, 670 An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. ' Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'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, 680 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 tease With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 689 Faint fare- thee- wells, and sigh-shrillcd 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'erspread with upturn'd gills Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd In little journeys, I beheld in it 700 A disguised demon, missioned to knit 98 • ENDYMION My soul with under darkness ; to entice My stumblings down some monstrous precipice : Therefore I eager follow'd, 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 710 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 719 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 't was love: and yet 't was love ; 730 What could it be but love ? How a ringdove 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 BOOK FIRST 99 Among the winds at large — that all may hearken ! Although, before the crystal heavens darken, I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 740 Pictured 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, 750 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 760 Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth Was in his plaited brow : yet his eyelids Widen'd 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, 770 No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared — Though now 't is tatter'd ; leaving my bark bared 100 ENDYMION 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 alchemized, and free of space. Behold 780 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 ^olian magic from their lucid wombs : Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs ; Old ditties sigh above their father's grave ; Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot ; 790 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 800 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 everissues 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, 810 « BOOK FIRST loi 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 820 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, up-perched high, And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves — She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 830 How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-gray hood. Just so may love, although 't is 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, 840 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, I02 ENDYMION Seems all tliis poor endeavour after fame, To one, who keeps within his steadfast aim A love immortal, an immortal too. Look not so wilder' d ; for these things are true 850 And never can be born of atomies That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, Leaving us fancy-sick, 'l^o, 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, d] My sayings will the less obscured seem When I have told thee how my waking sight Has made me scruple whether that same night 860 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 hot 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, 870 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: 'T was 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 ; 880 So reaching back to boyhood : make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, BOOK FIRST 103 With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, When lovelorn hours had left me less a child, I sat contemplating the figures wild Of o'erhead clouds melting the mirror through. Upon a day, vs^hile thus I watch'd, by fliew A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver ; So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver 890 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 obj ects from my smother'd sight, 901 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, 'T is scared away by slow returning pleasure. How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 910 Of weary days, made deeper exquisite. By a foreknowledge 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 920 I04 ENDYMION With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd 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 smiled, Chatted with thee, and many days exiled All torment from my breast ; — 't was 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, 930 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 bram- ble. 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 blithe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 939 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- voiced : " 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 't is 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 950 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 lispera BOOK FIRST 105 May sigh my love unto her pitying ! charitable Echo ! hear, and sing This ditty to her ! — tell her " — So I stay'd My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 960 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 970 Are those swift moments ? Whither are they fled ? 1 '11 smile no more, Peona ; nor will wed Sorrow, the way to death ; but patiently Bear up against it : so farewell, sad sigh ; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink, Ko more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief : no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 980 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 '11 say 't is 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 990 Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand : They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. io6 ENDYMION BOOK II O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! O balm ! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years : For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent ; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine. One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, Stiff -holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, Struggling, and blood, and' shrieks — all dimly fades lo Into some backward corner of the brain ; Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded cheat ! Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory ! Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride, 20 And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. But wherefore this ? What care, though owl did fly About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow. Doth more avail than these ; the silver flow 30 Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, BOOK SECOND 107 Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully Must such conviction come upon his head, Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, The path of love and poesy. But rest. In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 40 Love's standard on the battlements of song. So once more days and nights aid me along. Like legion'd soldiers. Brain-sick shepherd-prince, What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows ? Alas ! 't is his old grief. For many days. Has he been wandering in uncertain ways : Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 50 Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening stiU, Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold : a wild rose tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see A bud which snares his fancy : lo ! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water : how ! It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight ; And, in the middle, there is softly pight 60 A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings There must be surely character'd strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. Lightly this little herald flew aloft, Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands : Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies io8 ENDYMION Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. It seem'd lie flew, the way so easy was ; And like a new-born spirit did he pass ^o Through the green evening quiet in the sun, O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him ; then, anew. He sinks adown a solitary glen, Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 80 Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide. Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd Unto the temperate air : then high it soar'd. And, downward, suddenly began to dip, As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch, 90 Even with mealy gold, the waters clear. But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest ? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 100 To him her dripping hand she softly kist. And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her lingers, saying : ' Youth 1 Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, BOOK SECOND 109 The bitterness of love : too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed The soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer, To Amphitrite ; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, no Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto- sands, Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands By my diligent springs : my level lilies, shells, My charming rod, my potent river spells ; Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. But woe is me, I am but as a child 120 To gladden thee ; and all I dare to say, Is, that I pity thee ; that on this day I 've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far In other regions, past the scanty bar To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en From every wasting sigh, from every pain, Into the gentle bosom of thy love. Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above : But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! I have a ditty for my hollow cell.' 130 Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, Holding his forehead to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down ; And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 140 Glowworms began to trim their starry lamps, no ENDYMION Thus breathed he to himself : * Whoso encamps To take a fancied city of delight, what a wretch is he ! and when 'tis his, After long toil and travelling, to miss The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile : Yet, for him there 's refreshment even in toil : Another city doth he set about, Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : 150 Alas, he finds them dry ; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life : the war, the deeds. The disappointment, the anxiety. Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, All human ; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food. To make us feel existence, and to show How quiet death is. Where soil is, men grow. Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, 160 There is no depth to strike in : I can see Naught earthly worth my compassing ; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land — Alone ? No, no ; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak. With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice seen love, Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 169 Of heaven ! O Cynthia, ten times bright and fair ! From thy blue throne, now filling all the air. Glance but one little beam of temper'd light Into my bosom, that the dreadful night And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spared, Would give a pang to jealous misery. Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout BOOK SECOND ill Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, i8o Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream. O be propitious, nor severely deem My madness impious ; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burst — that I Am sailing vv^ith thee through the dizzy sky ! How beautiful thou art ! The world how deep ! How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep Around their axle ! Then these gleaming reins, 190 How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains Its airy goal, haply some bower veils Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit fails — Dear goddess, help ! or the wide gaping air Will gulf me — help ! ' — At this, with madden'd stare. And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood ; Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. And, but from the deep cavern there was borne A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 200 Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth : ' De- scend, Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys bend Into the sparry hollows of the world ! Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been A little lower than the chilly sheen Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms Into the deadening ether that still charms Their marble being : now, as deep profound 210 As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow, The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! ' 112 ENDYMION He heard but the last words, nor could contend One moment in reflection : for he fled Into the fearful deep, to hide his head From the clear moon, the trees, and coming mad- ness. 'T was far too strange, and wonderful for sad- ness ; Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 220 To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; A dusky empire and its diadems ; One faint eternal eventide of gems. Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, With all its lines abrupt and angular: Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star. Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof, 230 Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss, It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss Fancy into belief : anon it leads Through winding passages, where sameness breeds Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; Whether to silver grots, or giant range Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 240 Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb His bosom grew, when first he, far away, Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray Old Darkness from his throne : 't was like the sun Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit BOOK SECOND 113 Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 250 "Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? The mighty ones who have made eternal day For Greece and England. While astonishment With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went Into a marble gallery, passing through A mimic temple, so complete and true In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd To search it inwards ; whence far off appear'd, Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 260 And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, The youth approach'd ; oft turning his veil'd eye Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old : And when, more near against the marble cold He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread All courts and passages, where silence dead, Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd faint : And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 270 Till, weary, he sat down before the maw Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim, To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. There, when new wonders ceased to float before, And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore The journey homeward to habitual self ! A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf, Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier. Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, Into the bosom of a hated thing. 280 What misery most drowningly doth sing In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 'tis the thought, The deadly feel of solitude : for lo ! He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 114 ENDYMION Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled. The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 290 But far from such companionship to wear An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? ' No ! ' exclaim'd he, ' why should I tarry here ? ' No ! loudly echoed times innumerable. At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell His paces back into the temple's chief ; "Warming and glowing strong in the belief Of help from Dian : so that when again 300 He caught her airy form, thus did he plain. Moving more near the while : ' O Haunter chaste Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste. Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen Art thou now forested ? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos ? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent ? Wheresoe'er it be, 'T is in the breath of heaven : thou dost taste 310 Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee It feels Elysian, how rich to me, An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! Within my breast there lives a choking flame — O let me cool 't the zophvr-boughs among ! A homeward fever parches up my tongue — O let me slake it at the running springs ! 320 Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float — 1 i BOOK SECOND 115 let me 'noint them with the heaven's light ! Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white ? O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice ! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry- juice ? O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, O think how I should love a bed of flowers ! — 330 Young goddess ! let me see my native bowers ! Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! ' • Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap His destiny, alert he stood : but when Obstinate silence came heavily again, Feeling about for its old couch of space And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face, Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the rill To its old channel, or a swollen tide 340 To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns Upheaping through the slab : refreshment drowns Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride In a long whispering birth enchanted grew Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, Down whose green back the short-lived foam, all hoar. Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 350 Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes One moment with his hand among the sweets : Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm. ii6 ENDYMION This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : For it came more softly than the east could blow Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 360 Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre To seas Ionian and Tyrian. O did he ever live, that lonely man, Who loved — and music slew not ? 'Tis the pest Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest ; That things of delicate and tenderest worth Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, By one consuming flame : it doth immerse And suffocate true blessings in a curse. 370 Half-happy, by comparison of bliss. Is miserable. 'T was even so with this Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear ; First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, Vanish'd in elemental passion. And down some swart abysm he had gone, Had not a heavenly guide benignant led To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head Brushing, awakened : then the sounds again "Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 380 Over a bower, where little space he stood ; For as the sunset peeps into a wood. So saw he panting light, and towards it went Through winding alleys ; and lo, wonderment ! Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, Cupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair. After a thousand mazes overgone, At last, with sudden step, he came upon A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high, Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, 390 And more of beautiful and strange beside : For on a silken couch of rosy pride, BOOK SECOND 117 In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach : And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, Or ripe October's faded marigolds. Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — Not hiding up an Apollonian curve Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve 400 Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; But rather, giving them to the lill'd sight Officiously. Sideway his face reposed On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth To slumbery pout ; j ust as the morning south Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, Four lily stalks did their white honours wed To make a coronal ; and round him grew All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 410 Together intertwin'd and trammell'd fresh : The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, Of velvet-leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; And virgin's boAver, trailing airily ; With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently. One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings, 420 Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; And, ever and anon, uprose to look At the youth's slumber ; while another took A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. And shook it on his hair ; another flew In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. At these enchantments, and yet many more, The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er ; Ii8 ENDYMION Until impatient in embarrassment, 430 He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway, Smiling, thus whisper'd : ' Though from upper day Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! For 't is the nicest touch of human honour. When some ethereal and high- favouring donor Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ; As now 't is done to thee, Endymion. • Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline 440 Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, Since Ariadne was a vintager, So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears. Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears Were high about Pomona : here is cream. Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd For the boy Jupiter : and here, undimm'd By "any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 450 Ready to melt between an infant's gums : And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees. In starlight, by the three Hesperides. Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know Of all these things around us.' He did so. Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; And thus: ' I need not any hearing tire By telling how the sea-born goddess pined For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind Him all in all unto her doating self. 460 Who would not be so prison'd ? but, fond elf. He was content to let her amorous plea Faint through his careless arms ; content to see An unseized heaven d3^ing at his feet ; Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat. When on the pleasant grass such love, love-lorn, Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born BOOK SECOND 119 Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs 469 Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. Hush ! no exclaim — yet, justly might' st thou call Curses upon his head. — I was half glad, But my poor mistress went distract and mad, When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard. Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he, That same Adonis, safe in the privacy Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 480 Aye, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness : The which she fills with visions, and doth dress In all this quiet luxury ; and hath set Us young immortals, without any let. To watch his slumber through. 'T is well nigh pass'd, Even to a moment's filling up, and fast She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 490 The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. Look ! how those winged listeners all this while Stand anxious: see ! behold ! ' — This clamant w^ord Broke through the careful silence ; for they heard A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd Pigeons and doves : Adonis something mutter'd. The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 500 Of sudden voices, echoing, ' Come ! come ! Arise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth walk'd Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd Full soothingly to every nested finch : Rise, Cupids ! or we '11 give the bluebell pinch I20 ENDYMION To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life be- gin ! ' At this, from every side they hurried in, Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, And doubling overhead their little fists In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 510 For, as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair. So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air Odorous and enlivening ; making all To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call For their sweet queen ; when lo ! the wreathed green Disparted, and far upward could be seen Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne. Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling chill 520 On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still Nestle and turn uneasily about. Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd out. And silken traces lighten'd in descent ; And soon, returning from love's banishment. Queen Venus leaning downward open-arm'd : Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd A tumult to his heart, and a new life Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, But for her comforting ! unhappy sight, 530 But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who can write Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. O it has ruffled every spirit there. Saving Love's self, who stands superb to share The general gladness : awfully he stands ; A sovereign quell is in his waving hands ; No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; His quiver is mysterious, none can know BOOK SECOND 121 "What themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 540 There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes : A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who Look full upon it feel anon the blue Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. Endymion feels it, and no more controls The burning prayer within him ; so, bent low, He had begun a plaining of his woe. But Venus, bending forward, said : ' My child, Favour this gentle youth ; his days are wild With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 550 Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true, That when through heavy hours I used to rue The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', This stranger ay I pitied. For upon A dreary morning once I fled away Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray For this my love : for vexing Mars had teased Me even to tears ; thence, when a little eased, Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 560 I saw this youth as he despairing stood : Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind ; Those same full fringed lids a constant blind Over his sullen eyes : I saw him throw Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved. Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved Some fair immortal, and that his embrace Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace Of this in heaven : I have mark'd each cheek, 570 And find it is the vainest thing to seek ; And that of all things 't is kept secretest. Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest : So still obey the guiding hand that fends Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 'T is a concealment needful in extreme ; And if I guessed not so, the sunny beam 122 ENDYMION Thou shouldst mount up with me. Now adieu ! Here must we leave thee.' — At these words upflew The impatient doves, uprose the floating car, 580 Up went the hum celestial. High afar The Latmian saw them minish into naught ; And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. When all was darken'd, with ^tnean throe The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — And left him once again in twilight lone. He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, For all those visions were o'ergone, and past, And he in loneliness : he felt assured 590 Of happy times, when all he had endured Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. So, with unusual gladness, on he hies Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor, Black polish'd porticoes of awful shade, And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, Leading afar past wild magnificence. Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 600 Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar. Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash The waters with his spear ; but at the splash. Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound. Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 610 Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells On this delight ; for, every minute's space. The streams with changed magic interlace : Sometimes like delicatest lattices, BOOK SECOND 123 Cover'd with crystal vines ; then weeping trees, Moving about as in a gentle wind, Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies, Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 620 Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; And then the water, into stubborn streams Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams, Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, Of those dusk places in times far aloof Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewell To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell, And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes, Blackening on every side, and overhead 630 A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread With starlight gems : aye, all so huge and strange. The solitary felt a hurried change Working within him into something dreary, — Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds. But he revives at once : for who beholds New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below. Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 640 In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown About her majesty, and front death-pale, With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws, Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away In another gloomy arch. Wherefore delay, Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 650 124 ENDYMION Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace The diamond path ? And does it indeed end Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward bend Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne Call ardently! He was indeed waj^worn ; Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings, Without one impious word, himself he flings. Committed to the darkness and the gloom : 660 Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom. Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel, And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed, Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem'd With airs delicious. In the greenest nook The eagle landed him, and farewell took. It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 670 With golden moss. His every sense had grown Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears Silence was music from the holy spheres ; A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell Of sudden exaltation * but, 'Alas!' 680 Said he, ' will all this gush of feeling pass Away in solitude ? And must they wane, Like melodies upon a sandy plain, Without an echo ? Then shall I be left So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love, BOOK SECOND 125 My breath of life, where art thou ? High above, Dancing before the morning gates of heaven ? Or keeping watch among those starry seven, Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the waters, 690 One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daugh- ters ? Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, Weaving a coronal of tender scions For very idleness ? Where'er thou art, Methinks it now is at my will to start Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train, And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off From thy«^ea-foamy cradle ; or to doff Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid fresh leaves. No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives • 701 Its powerless self : I know this cannot be. O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil For some few hours the coming solitude.' Thus spake he, and that mom'ent felt endued With power to dream deliciously ; so wound Through a dim passage, searching till he found The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 710 He threw himself, and just into the air Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! A naked waist : ' Fair Cupid, whence is this ? ' A well-known voice sigh'd, ' Sweetest, here am I! ' At which soft ravishment, with doting cry They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon! That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er These sorry pages ; then the verse would soar And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 720 Over his nested young : but all is dark Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 126 ENDYMION Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll Is folded by the Muses ; the bright roll Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, Although the sun of poesy is set, These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 730 That there is no old power left to steep A quill immortal in their joyous tears. Long time in silence did their anxious fears Question that thus it was : long time they lay Fondling and kissing every doubt away ; Long time ere soft caressing sobs began To mellow into words, and then there ran Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. * O known Unknown ! from whom my being sips Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 740 Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? Why not for ever and for ever feel That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt steal Away from me again, indeed, indeed — Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed My lonely madness. Speak, delicious fair. Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare To pluck thee from me ? And, of thine own will, 750 Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now How can we part ? Elysium ! Who art thou ? Who, that thou canst not be for ever here. Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, By the most soft completion of thy face, Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, BOOK SECOND 127 And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 760 The passion ' ' O doved Ida the divine ! Endymion ! dearest 1 Ah, unhappy me ! His soul will 'scape us — O felicity ! How he does love me ! His poor temples beat To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet. Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ; Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by In tranced dullness ; speak, and let that spell Affright this lethargy ! I cannot quell Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 770 My lips to thine, that they may richly feast Until we taste the life of love again. What ! dost thou move ? dost kiss ? O bliss ! O pain ! I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; And so long absence from thee doth bereave My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : Yet, can I not to starry eminence Uplift thee ; nor for very shame can own Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 780 And I must blush in heaven. O that I Had done it already ; that the dreadful smiles At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, Had waned from Olympus' solemn height. And from all serious Gods ; that our delight Was quite forgotten, save of us alone ! And wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to atone For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : Yet must I be a coward ! — Honour rushes Too palpable before me — the sad look 790 Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion In reverence veiled — my crystalline dominion Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity ! But what is this to love ? O I could fly ^'i'd 128 ENDYMION With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown — 800 I do think that 1 have been alone In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, While every eve saw me my hair uptying With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love, 1 was as vague as solitary dove, Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss. An immortality of passion 's thine : Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 810 Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; And I will tell thee stories of the sky. And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. My happy love will overwing all bounds ! O let me melt into thee ; let the sounds Of our close voices marry at their birth ; Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth Of human words! roughness of mortal speech ! Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach Thine honey'd tongue — lute-breathings which I gasp 820 To have thee understand, now while I clasp Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd. Endymion : woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ? ' — Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife Melted into a languor. He return'd Entranced vows and tears. Ye who have yearn' d With too much passion, will here stay and pity, For the mere sake of truth ; as 't is a ditty Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 830 By a cavern wind unto a forest old ; BOOK SECOND 129 And then the forest told it in a dream To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam A poet caught as he was journeying To Phoebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, And after, straight in that inspired place He sang the story up into the air, Giving it universal freedom. There Has it been ever sounding for those ears 840 Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers Yon sentinel stars ; and he who listens to it Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it : For quenchless burnings come upon the heart. Made fiercer by a fear lest any part Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. As much as here is penn'd doth always find A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain ; Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — And 't is but echoed from departing sound, 850 That the fair visitant at last unwound Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. Now turn we to our former chroniclers. Endymion awoke, that grief of hers Sweet paining on his ear : he sickly guess'd How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd His empty arms together, hung his head. And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed Sat silently. Love's madness he had known: 860 Often with more than tortured lion's groan Moanings had burst from him ; but now that rage Had pass'd away : no longer did he wage A rough- voiced war against the dooming stars. No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: The lyre of his soul ^olian tuned Forgot all violence, and but communed With melancholy thought : O he had swoon'd I30 ENDYMION Drunken from pleasure's nipple ; and his love Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 870 From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 'T was with slow, languid paces, and face hid In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd Alecto's serpents ; ravishments more keen Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, O'erstudded with a thousand, thousand pearls, And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls, 880 Of every shape and size, even to the bulk In which whales harbour close, to brood and sulk Against an endless storm. Moreover too. Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder On all his life : his youth, up to the day "When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay. He stept upon his shepherd throne : the look Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 890 And all the revels he had lorded there : Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, With every friend and fellow-woodlander — Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans To nurse the golden age 'niong shepherd clans : That wondrous night : the great Pan festival : His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all, Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd : Then all its buried magic, till it tiush'd 900 High with excessive love. ' And now,' thought he, ' How long must I remain in jeopardy Of blank amazements that amaze no more ? Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core, All other depths are shallow ; essences, Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, I i BOOK SECOND 131 Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, And make my branches lift a golden fruit Into the bloom of heaven : other light, Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight 910 The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark. Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells ; Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells Of noises far away ? — list ! ' — Hereupon He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, On either side outgush'd, with misty spray, A copious spring ; and both together dash'd Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd 920 Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise Upon the last few steps, and with spent force Along the ground they took a winding course. Endymion follow'd — for it seem'd that one Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh He had left thinking of the mystery, — 930 And was now rapt in tender hoverings Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah ? what is it sings His dream away ? What melodies are these ? They sound as through the whispering of trees, Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear ! ' O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, why, Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, Circling about her waist, and striving how 940 To entice her to a dive ! then stealing in Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. O that her shining hair was in the sun, / 132 ENDYMION And I distilling from it thence to run In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! To linger on her lily shoulders, warm Between her kissing breasts, and every charm Touch raptured ! — see how painfully I flow : Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, 950 A happy wooer, to the flowery mead Where all that beauty snared me. ' — ' Cruel god, Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not With siren words — Ah, have I really got Such power to madden thee ? And is it true — Away, away, or I shall dearly rue My very thoughts : in mercy then away, Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey My own dear will, 't would be a deadly bane.' 960 ' O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a pain Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn And be a criminal.' ' Alas, I burn, I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, Kipe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave ; But ever since I heedlessly did lave In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 970 Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so. And call it love ? Alas ! 't was cruelty. Not once more did I close my happy eye Amid the thrush's song. Away ! a vaunt ! O 't was a cruel thing.' — ' Now thou dost taunt So softly, Arethusa, that I think If thou wast playing on iny shady brink, Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid ! Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid Of angry powers : there are deities 980 Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs BOOK SECOND 133 'T is almost death to hear : O let me pour A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal Blushing into my soul, and let us fly These dreary caverns for the open sky. I will delight thee all my winding course, From the green sea up to my hidden source About Arcadian forests ; and will show 990 The channels where my coolest waters flow Through mossy rocks ; where 'mid exuberant green, I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees Buzz from their honey'd wings : and thou shouldst please Thyself to choose the richest, where we might Be inoense-pillow'd every summer night. Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, 1000 And let us be thus comforted ; unless Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam. And pour to death along some hungry sands.' — ' What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands Severe before me : persecuting fate ! Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late A huntress free in ' — At this, sudden fell Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more, loio Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er The name of Arethusa. On the verge Of that dark gulf he wept, and said ; ' I urge Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains ; And make them happy in some happy plains.' 134 ENDYMION He tiirn'd — there was a whelming sound — he stept, There w^as a cooler light ; and so he kept Towards it by a sandy path, and lo ! 1020 More suddenly than doth a moment go, The visions of the earth were gone and fled — He saw the giant sea abov,e his head. BOOK III There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away The comfortable green and juicy hay From human pastures ; or, O torturing fact ! Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight Able to face an owl's, they still are dight 10 By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests. And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount To their spirit's perch, their being's high account. Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones — Amid the fierce intoxicating tones Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums. And sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this hums. In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, 20 And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — Are then regalities all gilded masks ? No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfined, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, i BOOK THIRD 135 And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements. Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate A thousand Powers keep religious state, 30 In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; And, silent as a consecrated urn, Hold spherey sessions for a season due. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few ! Have bared their operations to this globe — Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres ; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 40 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne. And there she sits most meek and most alone ; As if she had not pomp subservient ; As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ; As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart, 50 Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 60 And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, 136 ENDYMION And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house. — The mighty deeps. The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea ! O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, 70 And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh? Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or what a thing is love ! 'T is She, but lo ! How changed, how full of ache, how gone in woe ! 80 She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees. Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle : for down-glancing thence. She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright- 'ning Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd lightning. 90 Where will the splendour be content to reach ? O love ! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty dwells. In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 't is won. Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath ; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; < i BOOK THIRD ' 137 Thou madest Pluto bear thin element ; And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast sent 100 A moonbeam to the deep, deep water- world, To find Endymion. On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light Against his pallid face : he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood : 't was very sweet ; he stay'd His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds. To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, no Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd Into sweet air ; and sober' d morning came Meekly through billows : — when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way. Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd 120 Above, around, and at his feet ; save things More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large Of gone sea- warriors : brazen beaks and targe ; Eudders that for a hundred years had lost The sway of human hand ; gold vase emboss'd With long-forgotten story, and wherein No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin But those of Saturn's vintage ; mouldering scrolls. Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 130 Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude In ponderous stone, developing the mood 138 ENDYMION Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man, Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him ; and unless Dian had chased away that heaviness. He might have died : but now, with cheered feel. He onward kept ; wooing these thoughts to steal 140 About the labyrinth in his soul of love. ' What is there in thee. Moon ! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently ? When yet a child I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously : No tumbling water ever spake romance. But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance : No woods were green enough, no bower divine, 151 Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine : In sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take, • Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; And, in the summer tide of blossoming. No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160 By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours ; thou wast the deep glen : Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun ; Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed — BOOK THIRD 139 My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed : — Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! O what a wild and harmonized tune 170 My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality : I prest Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. But gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — Yet not entirely : no, thy starry sway Has been an under- passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power 180 Is coming fresh upon me : O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive That I can think away from thee and live ! — Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! How far beyond.! ' At this a surprised start Frosted the springing verdure of his heart ; For as he lifted up his eyes to swear How his own goddess was past all things fair, 190 He saw far in the concave green of the sea An old man sitting calm and peacefully. Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, And his white hair was awful, and a mat Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet ; And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness ; storm, 200 And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar, Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted shore Were emblem'd in the woof ; with every shape That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. 140 ENDYMION The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, Yet look upon it, and 't would size and swell To its huge self ; and the minutest fish Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, And show his little eye's anatomy. Then there was pictured the regality 210 Of Neptune ; and the sea-nymphs round his state, In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd So steadfastly, that the new denizen Had time to keep him in amazed ken, To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. The old man raised his hoary head and saw The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see. His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 220 He woke as from a trance : his snow-white brows Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, Till round his wither' d lips had gone a smile. Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, Who had not from mid-life to utmost age Eased in one accent his o'erburden'd soul. Even to the trees. He rose : he grasp'd his stole. With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 231 And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed Echo into oblivion, he said : — ' Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow : now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and stung With new-born life ! What shall I do ? Where go, When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ? — 240 BOOK THIRD 141 I '11 swim to the sirens, and one moment listen Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten ; Anon upon that giant's arm I '11 be, That writhes about the roots of Sicily : To northern seas I '11 in a twinkling sail, And mount upon the snortings of a whale To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd With rapture to the other side of the world ! 250 O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, I bow full-hearted to your old decree ! Yes, every god be thank' d, and power benign. For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man ! ' Endymion started back Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, Mutter'd : * What lonely death am I to die In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze, And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 260 Or will he touch me with his searing hand, And leave a black memorial on the sand ? Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw. And keep me as a chosen food to draw His magian fish through hated fire and flame ? O misery of hell ! resistless, tame, Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shout. Until the gods through heaven's blue look out ! — O Tartarus ! but some few days agone Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 270 Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves : Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop. But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, fare- well ! Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 142 ENDYMION Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair ! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man ! ' 280 He spake, and walking to that aged form,. Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept ? Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 290 About his large dark locks, and faltering spake : ' Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake ! I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own : for why ? thou openest The prison gates that have so long opprest My weary watching. Though thou kuow'st it not, Thou art commission'd to this fated spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more ! I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 300 Aye, hadst thou never loved an unknown power, I had been grieving at this joyous hour. But even now most miserable old, I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid. For thou Shalt hear this secret all di splay' d. Now as we speed towards our joyous task.' So saying, this young soul in age's mask 310 Went forward with the Carian side by side : BOOK THIRD 143 Resuming quickly thus ; while ocean's tide Hung swollen at their backs, and j ewell'd sands Took silently their foot- prints. ' My soul stands Now past the midway from mortality, And so I can prepare without a sigh To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. I was a fisher once, upon this main, And my boat danced in every creek and bay ; Rough billows were my home by night and day — The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 321 No housing from the storm and tempests mad, But hollow rocks — and they were palaces Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : Long years of misery have told me so. Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. One thousand years ! — Is it then possible To look so plainly through them ? to dispel A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 330 From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, And one's own image from the bottom peep ? Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall, My long captivity and moanings all Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. The which I breathe away, and thronging come Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures: ' I tou€h'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : I was a lonely youth on desert shores. My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, 340 And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry — Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen Would let me feel their scales of gold and green. Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft 144 ENDYMION Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe My life away like a vast sponge of fate, Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, Has dived to its foundations, gulf'd it down, 350 And left me tossing safely. But the crown j Of all my life was utmost quietude : 1 More did I love to lie in cavern rude, ^ Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, And if it came at last, hark, and rej oice ! There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep. Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep : 360 And never was a day of summer shine, But I beheld its birth upon the brine : For I would watch all night to see unfold Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morning gold Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly At brim of day-tide on some grassy lea, My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate : They knew not whence this bounty, and elate 370 ff Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. I ' Why was I not contented ? Wherefore reach At things which, but for thee, O Latmian 1 Had been my dreary death ? Fool ! I began To feel distemper'd longings : to desire • The utmost privilege that ocean's sire Could grant in benediction : to be free Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit I plunged for life or death. To interknit 380 One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough Can I admire how crystal- smooth it felt, BOOK THIRD 145 And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; Forgetful utterly of self -intent ; Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then, like a new-fledged bird that flrst doth show His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 390 'T was freedom ! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. No need to tell thee of them, for I see That thou hast been a witness — it must be For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, By the melancholy corners of that mouth. So I will in my story straightway pass To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla fair ! Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 400 To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger-youth ! I loved her to the very white of truth, And she would not conceive it. Timid thing ! She fled m^e swift as sea-bird on the wing. Round every isle, and point, and promontory, From where large Hercules wound up his story Far as Egyptian Nile, My passion grew The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear: Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear ; 410 And in that agony, across my grief It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief — Cruel enchantress ! So above the water I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. ^gea's isle was wondering at the moon : — It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. ' When I awoke, 't was in a twilight bower ; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees. Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. 420 146 ENDYMION How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a lyre, And over it a sighing voice expire. It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove ! With tears, and smiles, and honey- words she wove A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech : " Ah ! art awake ? let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 430 1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have shed An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead ; And now I find thee living, I will pour From these devoted eyes their silver store, Until exhausted of the latest drop. So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop Here, that I too may live : but if beyond Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 440 If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, O let me pluck it for thee ! " Thus she link'd Her charming syllables, till indistinct Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul ; And then she hover'd over me. and stole So near, that if no nearer it had been This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. ' Young man of Latmos ! thus particular Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far 450 This fierce temptation went : and thou may'st not Exclaim, How, then, was Scylla quite forgot ? * Who could resist ? Who in this universe ? She did so breathe ambrosia ; so immerse My fioe existence in a golden clime. She took me like a child of suckling time, i BOOK THIRD 147 And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, The current of my former life was stemm'd, And to this arbitrary queen of sense I bow'd a tranced vassal : nor would thence 460 Have moved, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. For as Apollo each eve doth devise A new apparelling for western skies ; So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, And birds from coverts innermost and drear 470 Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — To me new-born delights ! ' Now let me borrow, For moments few, a temperament as stern As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell How specious heaven was changed to real hell. * One morn she left me sleeping ; half awake I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake My greedy thirst with nectarous camel- draughts ; But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 480 Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom Damp awe assail'd me ; for there 'gan to boom A sound of moan, an agony of sound, Sepulchral from the distance all around. Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled Down a precipitous path,_ as if impell'd. I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swell'd 490 148 ENDYMION Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, The nearer I approach'd a flame's gavint blue, That glared before me through a thorny brake. This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, Bewitch'd me towards ; and I soon was near A sight too fearful for the feel of fear : In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, Seated upon an uptorn forest root ; And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, 500 Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting, Showing tootii, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting ! O such deformities ! old Charon's self. Should he give up awhile his penny pelf ^ And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, It could not be so' f antasied. Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarled staff she shook. Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh'd out. And from a basket emptied to the rout 510 Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more ; with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling phial: Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm : appealing groans From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier 520 She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage ; Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat : Then was appalling silence : then a sight More wildering than all that hoarse affright ; BOOK THIRD 149 For the whole herd, as by a whh-lwind writhen, Went through the dismal air like one huge Python Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vauish'd. 531 Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banish'd These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the dark Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, With dancing and loud revelry, — and went Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud In human accent : ' ' Potent goddess ! chief Of pains resistless ! make my being brief, 540 Or let me from this heavy prison fly : Or give me to the air, or let me die ! I sue not for my happy crown again ; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife : I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! I will forget them ; I will pass these j oys ; Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too high : Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 550 Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold bleak air. Have mercy. Goddess ! Circe, feel my prayer!" ' That curst magician's name fell icy numb Upon my wild conjecturing : truth had come Naked and sabre-like against my heart. I saw a fury whetting a death-dart ; And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 560 Think, my deliverer, how desolate My waking must have been ! disgust, and hate, And terrors manifold divided me A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 150 ENDYMION I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, A clammy dew is beading on my brow, At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. " Ha! ha! Sir Dainty ! there must be a nurse 570 Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, express, To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee : yes, I am too flinty -hard for thy nice touch : My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch So, fairy -thing, it shall have lullabies Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries Upon some breast more lily- feminine. Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 580 Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not hurt One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh, That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, Let me sob over thee my last adieus. And speak a blessing : Mark me ! thou hast thews Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : But sucif a love is mine, that here I chase 590 Eternally away from thee all bloom Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast ; And there, ere many days be overpast, Disabled age shall seize thee ; and even then Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! " — As shot stars fall, 600 She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung And poisoned was my spirit : despair sung A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. BOOK THIRD 151 A hand was at my shoulder to compel My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam I found me ; by my fresh, my native home. Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in ; 610 And with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while yet there remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. ' Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell ? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; I look'd — 't was Scylla ! Cursed, cursed Circe ! vulture- witch, hast never heard of mercy ? 620 Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I lov'd her ? — Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was 1 clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted : at one eager swirl 630 Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold ! 'T was vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; And all around — But wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see ? — I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half way : soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. 152 ENDYMION • Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, Without one hope, without one faintest trace 640 Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble Of colour'd phantasy : for I fear 't would trouble Thy brain to loss of reason : and next tell How a restoring chance came down to quell One half of the witch in me. ' On a day, Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon's brink A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink Away from me again, as though her course Had been resumed in spite of hindering force — 650 So vanish'd: and not long, before arose Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. Old ^olus would stifle his mad spfleen, But could not ; therefore, all the billows green Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. The tempest came : I saw that vessel's shrouds In perilous bustle ; while upon the deck Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck ; The final gulfing ; the poor struggling souls ; I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. 660 they had all been saved but crazed eld Annull'd my vigorous cravings ; and thus quell'd And curb'd, think on 't, O Latmian! did I sit Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone By one and one, to pale oblivion ; And I was gazing on the surges prone, With many a scalding tear, and many a groan, When at my feet emerged an old man's hand, Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 670 1 knelt with pain — reach" d out my hand — had grasp'd These treasures — touch'd the knuckles — they un- clasp'd — I i BOOK THIRD 153 I caught a finger ; but the downward weight O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan abate The storm, and through chill aguish gloom out- burst The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on My soul page after page, till well nigh won 680 Into forgetfulness ; when, stupefied, I read these words, and read again, and tried My eyes against the heavens, and read again. O what a load of misery and pain Each Atlas-line bore off ! — a shine of hope Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! For thou hast brought their promise to an end.' In the wide sea tliere lives a forlorn wretch, Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch 690 His loath' d existence through ten centuries, And then to die alone. Who can devise A total opposition ? No one. So One million times ocean must ebb and flow. And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, These things accomplish' d : — If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds ; If he explores all forms and substances Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 700 He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief He must pursue this task of joy and grief Most piously ; — all lovers tempest-tost, And in the savage overtchelming lost. He shall deposit side by side, until Time 's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : Which done, and all these labours ripened, A youth, by heavenly power loved and led. 154 ENDYMION Shall stmid before Mm ; tchom he shall direct How to consummate all. The youth elect 710 Must do the thing, or both will be destroyed. — ' Then,' cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, ' We are twin brothers in this destiny ! Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerved, Had we both perish'd ? ' — ' Look ! ' the sage replied, ' Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, Of divers brilliances ? 't is the edifice I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies ; 720 And where I have enshrined piously All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die Throughout my bondage.' Thus discoursing, on They went till unobscured the porches shone ; Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. Sure never since king Neptune held his state Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars Has legion'd all his battle ; and behold How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 730 His even breast : see, many steeled squares, And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares One step ? Imagine further, line by line. These warrior thousands on the field supine ; — So in that crystal place, in silent rows. Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. — The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed ; Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips, 740 He mark'd their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, Put cross-wise to its' heart. BOOK THIRD 155 * Let us commence,' Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, 'even now.' He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, Began to tear his scroll in pieces small. Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. He tore it into pieces small as snow That drifts unf eather'd when bleak northerns blow ; And having done it, took his dark blue cloak 751 And bound it round Endymion : then struck His wand against the empty air times nine. — ' What more there is to do, young man, is thine : But first a little patience ; first undo This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. Ah, gentle ! 't is as weak as spider's skein ; And should st thou break it — What, is it done so clean ? A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave! The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 760 Here is a shell ; 't is pearly blank to me, Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's sake ! Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, break This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal.' 'T was done : and straight with sudden swell and fall Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sigh'd A lullaby to silence. — ' Youth ! now strew These minced leaves on me, and passing through Those files of dead, scatter the same around, 770 And thou wilt see the issue.' — 'Mid the sound Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. How lightning-swift the change ! a youthful wight Smiling beneath a coral diadem. Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, 156 ENDYMION Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force Press'd its cold hand, and wept, — and Scylla sigh'd ! 780 Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — The nymph arose : he left them to their joy. And onward went upon his high employ. Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head. As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. Death felt it to his inwards : 't was too much : Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. The Latmian persevered along, and thus All were reanimated. There arose 790 A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the air — while many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true. Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest Felt a high certainty of being blest. They gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. 800 The two deliverers tasted a pure wine Of happiness, from fairy press oozed out. Speechless they eyed each other, and about The fair assembly wandered to and fro, Distracted with the richest overflow Of joy that ever pour'd from heav'n. ' Away ! ' Shouted the new born god ; * Follow, and pay Our piety to Neptunus supreme ! ' — Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream. They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, 810 Through portal columns of a giant size BOOK THIRD 157 Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. Joyous all follow' d, as the leader call'd, Down marble steps ; pouring as easily As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see Swallows obeying the south summer's call, Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, Just within k^en, they saw descending thick 820 Another multitude. Whereat more quick Moved either host. On a wide sand they met. And of those numbers every eye was wet ; For each their old love found. A murmuring rose. Like what was never heard in all the throes Of wind and waters : 't is past human wit To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. This mighty consummation made, the host Moved on for many a league ; and gain'd and lost Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelling in array, 830 And from the rear diminishing away, — Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, ' Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! God Neptune's palaces.' With noise increased, They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. At every onward step proud domes arose In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden glows Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. Still onward ; still the splendour gradual swell'd. 840 Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere As marble was there lavish, to the vast Of one fair palace, that far, far surpass'd. 158 ENDYMION Even for common bulk, those olden three, Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow 850 Oi Iris, when unfading it doth show Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch Through which this Paphian army took its march. Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, To which the leaders sped ; but not h^f raught Ere it burst open swift as fairy thougnt. And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 860 Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze. And then, behold ! large Neptune on his throne Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone ; At his right hand stood winged Love, and on His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. Far as the mariner on highest mast Can see all round upon the calmed vast. So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, 870 Awed from the throne aloof ; — and when storm rent Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air ; But soothed as now, flash' d sudden everywhere, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering Death to a human eye : for there did spring From natural west, and east, and south, and north, A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 88 Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through 1 BOOK THIRD 159 The delicatest air : air verily, But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere. They stood in dreams Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; The Nereids danced ; the Sirens faintly sang ; And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 891 On all the multitude a nectarous dew. The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; And when they reach'd the throned eminence She kiss'd the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her down A-toying with the doves. Then, — ' Mighty crown And sceptre of this kingdom ! ' Venus said, ' Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid : Behold ! ' — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 900 From the God's large eyes ; he smiled delectable. And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — ' Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the bands Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the hour I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? A little patience, youth ! 'twill not be long. Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 910 Where these are new and strange, are ominous. Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, When others were all blind ; and were I given To utter secrets, haply I might say Some pleasant words : — but Love will have his day. i6o ENDYMION So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, Visit thou my Cytherea : thon wilt find Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind ; And pra}^ persuade with thee — Ah, I have done, All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! ' — 921 Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. Meantime a glorious revelry began Before the water-monarch. Nectar ran In courteous fountains to all cups out-reach'd ; And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; The which, in disentangling for their fire, Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 930 For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song. And garlanding, grew wild ; and pleasure reign'd. In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, And strove who should be smother'd deepest in Fresh crush of leaves. O 't is a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this. O do not curse, High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 940 All suddenly were silent. A soft blending Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; And then a hymn. ' King of the stormy sea ! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements ! Eternally before Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, BOOK THIRD i6i At thy f ear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers, lost in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow. 950 Thou frownest, and old ^olus thy foe Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 960 And it hath furrow'd that large front : yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit To blend and interknit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell-borne King sublime ! We lay our hearts before thee evermore — We sing, and we adore ! * Breathe softly, flutes ; Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O vain ; 970 Not flowers budding in an April rain. Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, — No, nor the ^olian twang of Love's own bow, Can mingle music fit for the soft ear Of goddess Cytherea ! Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes On our soul's sacrifice. ' Bright-winged Child ! TMio has anotlier care when thou hast smiled ? Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 980 All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. i62 ENDYMION sweetest essence ! sweetest of all minions ! God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, And panting bosoms bare ! Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until We fill— we fill! And by thy Mother's lips ' 990 Was heard no more For clamour, when the golden palace door Open'd again, and from without, in shone A new magnificence. On oozy throne Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old. To take a latest glimpse at his sheepfold. Before he went into his quiet cave To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea. Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty Of Doris, and the ^gean seer, her spouse — 1000 Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : His fingers went across it — All were mute To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, And Thetis pearly too. — The palace whirls Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he Was there far strayed from mortality. He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; Imagination gave a dizzier pain. • O I shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! loio Where is my lovely mistress ? Wellaway ! 1 die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing ' — At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring ' — Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife To usher back his spirit into life : But still he slept. At last they interwove I BOOK FOURTH 163 Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey Towards a crystal bower far away. Lo ! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, To his inward senses these words spake aloud ; 1020 Written in starlight on the dark above : ' Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! How have I dwelt in fear of fate ; 't is done — Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. Arise then ! for the hen-dove shall not hatch Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch Thee into endless heaven. Awake ! awake ! ' The youth at once arose : a placid lake Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green, Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, 1030 LuH'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. How happy once again in grassy nest ! ' BOOK IV 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 : — 1 Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain, ' Come hither, Sister of the Island 1 ' Plain Spake fair xlusonia ; and once more she spake A higher summons : — still didst thou betake i64 ENDYMION 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 20 Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets Our spirits" 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 slirives 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 30 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 40 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 BOOK FOURTH 165 Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 50 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 60 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 ! 70 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 So 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 ! ' — i66 ENDYMION 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 90 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 for them in twain.' 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, 100 He sprang from his green covert : there she lay. Sweet as a musk-rose 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 ! pardon me, for I am full of grief — Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith no Thou art my executioner, and I feel Loving and hatred, misery and weal, Will in a fcAv 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 tortured 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 1 until the firmament 120 BOOK FOURTH 167 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-fledged little ones to brush 130 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 't would 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, ' 't is 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 140 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 ? iso Or is 't thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? ' O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — i68 ENDYMION To give the glowworm light ? Or, on a moonless night, To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry ? * O Sorrow, Why dost borrow The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? — i6o 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 170 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, 180 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 Brimming the water-lily cups with tears Cold as my fears. BOOK FOURTH 169 ' Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, I sat a- weeping : what enamour'd bride. Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 190 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 — 'T was Bacchus and his crew ! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 'T was Bacchus and his kin ! Like to a moving vintage down they came, 200 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 chestnuts 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, 210 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 quaflSng. ' Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! whence came ye ! So many, and so many, and such glee ? Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 220 Your lutes, and gentler fate ? I70 ENDYMION "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 230 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, 240 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. 250 ' Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, From rear to van they scour about the plains ; A three days' j ourney in a moment done ; And always, at the rising of the sun, BOOK FOURTH 171 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 ! 260 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 270 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, 't is not for me ! Bewitch'd I sure must be. To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. ' Come then, Sorrow ! Sweetest Sorrow ! 280 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 ; 172 ENDYMION Thou art her mother, And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.' 290 O what a sigh she gave in finishing, And look, quite dead to every wordly 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 Siren ! I ' ve no choice ; 300 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, beautif ullest, shall I never think ? O thou couldst 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 ! — 310 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 sof tling — 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 319 This is this world — sweet dewy blossom ! ' — Woe ! Woe ! looe 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 ; BOOK FOURTH 173 And while it died away a shade pass'd by, As of a thundercloud. When arrows fly Through the thick branches, poor ringdoves sleek forth Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both Leant to each other trembling, and sat so Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 330 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 ; 340 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 placed 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 Exhaled to Phcebus' lips, away they are gone, Far from the earth away — unseen, alone, 350 Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, The buoyant life of song can floating be Above their heads, and follow them untired. Muse of my native land, am I inspired ? 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 360 Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid ? — 174 ENDYMION 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 wil- low : 'T was Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born 371 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, showing 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. 380 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 tinged 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 390 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. BOOK FOURTH 175 These raven horses, though they foster'd are Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 399 Their fuU-vein'd 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 : 410 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 to 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 420 Are visible above : the Seasons four, — Green-kirtled 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 ? — 'T is Dian's : lo ! She rises crescented ! ' He looks, 't is she, 430 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, 176 ENDYMION 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. state perplexing ! On the pinion bed, Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440 Of his delicious lady. He who died For soaring too audacious in the sun, When 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 pulsed 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 450 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, 1 have no daedale heart ; why is it wrung To desperation ? Is there nought for me, 460 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 yawn'd 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 471 BOOK FOURTH 177 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 : 480 Shall we away ? ' He roused 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 silv^y, 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 490 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 grieved 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, On tiny point of fairy scimetar : Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 500 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 178 ENDYMION This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair 1 He saw her body fading gaunt and spare In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist ; It melted from his grasp ; her hand he kiss'd, And, horror ! kiss'd his own — he was alone. 510 Her steed a little higher soar'd and then Dropt hawk- wise 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 520 At random flies ; they are the proper home Of every ill : the man is yet to come Who hath not journey'd 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 530 The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none Who strive therefor : 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 quaff'd 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 ; 540 BOOK FOURTH 179 "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 led thee to this Cave of Quietude. Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne, With dangerous speed : and so he did not mourn 550 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 560 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 ! 570 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 ; i8o ENDYMION Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, All gather'd in the dewy morning : Me Away ! fly, fly ! — 580 Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings. Two fanlike fountains, — thine illuminings For Dian play : Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare Show cold through watery pinions; make more bright The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night : Haste, haste away ! — 59° 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 tlie blue of heaven. He '11 be shent. Pale unrelentor, 600 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 disenthrall : Ye shall for ever live and love, for all Thy tears are flowing. — 610 By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! ' — More Endymion heard not : down his steed him bore, Prone to the green head of a misty hill. BOOK FOURTH i8i 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, 620 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, 630 But with thy beauty will I deaden it. Where didst thou melt to ? 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, loved a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have been Presumptuous against love, against the sky. Against all elements, against the tie 640 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 lived a mortal man, who bent His appetite beyond his natural sphere. But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast i82 ENDYMION My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 650 Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell ! 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 660 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 '11 talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now, Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the brow 670 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 reclined : 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 '11 bring. And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — Cresses that grow wiieie no man may them see, And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag : BOOK FOURTH 183 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, — 690 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. 700 I '11 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 ! 710 Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 'Fore which I '11 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 steadfastness 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 seizure ? 720 O that I could not doubt ! ' l84 ENDYMION The mountaineer Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear His brier'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 valleys of the east : ' O that the flutter of his heart had ceased, Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away. Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift decay 730 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 gave and gave To the void air, bidding them find out love : 740 But when I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. All earthly pleasure, all imagined 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, 750 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 tremble 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 ; BOOK FOURTH 185 We might embrace and die : voluptuous thought ! Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught 760 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 valleys green together went. Far wandering, they were perforce content To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree ; Nor at each other gazed, but heavily ,Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 770 Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem Truth the best music in a first-born song. Thy lute- voiced 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 780 His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse Of j oy he might have felt. The spirit culls Unladed 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 carved, and round it spent His skill in little stars. The teeming tree Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery. 79c But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope i86 ENDYMION 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 ! 800 Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure — Impossible — how dearly they embrace I 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 will 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. 810 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 restored, 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 ; 820 Free- voiced 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. 4 I BOOK FOURTH i87 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 befall, 830 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 841 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, 850 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 '11 live in mossy cave, 860 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 ; i88 ENDYMION 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 871 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 ! 880 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 : 890 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 BOOK FOURTH 189 Was struck, and all were dreamers. At tlie last 900 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 Engulf for ever. ' Stay,' he cried, 'ah, stay ! Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to say : Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 910 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 '11 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 920 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. 930 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 190 ENDYMION Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies. Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour-roses ; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 940 That I should die with it : so in all this We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, Where is there to plain of ? By Titan's foe I am but rightly served.' 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 950 Gave utterance as he enter'd : ' Ha ! ' I said, ' King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue af 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 960 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 brier Nor muffling thicket interposed 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 970 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 embraced her, and his lady's hand Press'd, saying : ' Sister, I would have command. BOOK FOURTH 191 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 slialt ! and by the lily truth 980 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 ; 990 And then 't was fit that from this mortal state Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-for change Be spiritualized. 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, 1000 Before three swiftest kisses he had told, They vanish'd far away ! — Peona went Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. 192 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO Faik Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! Lorenzo, a young palmer in love's eye ! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady ; They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by ; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep But to each other dream, and nightly weep. With every morn their love grew tenderer, With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; He might not in house, field, or garden stir, But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; And his continual voice was pleasanter To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, Before the door had given her to his eyes ; And from her chamber- window he would catch Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; And constant as her vespers would he watch, Because her face was turn'd to the same skies ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 193 And with sick longing all the night outwear, To hear her morning-step upon the stair. A whole long month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of June * To-morrow will I bow to my delight, To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.' — * O may I never see another night, Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune.' - So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; V Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek Fell sick within the rose's just domain, Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek By every lull to cool her infant's pain : ' How ill she is ! ' said he, ' I may not speak, And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : If looks, speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, And at the least 't will startle off her cares. So said he one fair morning, and all day His heart beat awfully against his side ; And to his heart he inwardly did pray For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! So once more he had waked and anguished A dreary night of love and misery, If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed To every symbol on his forehead high : 194 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 She saw it waxing very pale and dead, And straight all flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, * Lorenzo ! ' — here she ceased her timid quest, But in her tone and look he read the rest. VIII ' O Isabella, I can half perceive That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; If thou didst ever anything believe. Believe how I love thee, believe how near My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live Another night, and not my passion shrive. ' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold. Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime, And I must taste the blossoms that unfold In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time. So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold. And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : Great bliss was with them, and great happiness Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close, and share The inward fragrance of each other's heart. She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; He with light steps went up a western hill, And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. XI All close they met again, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 195 All close they met, all eves, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. Ah ! better had it been forever so, Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — Too many tears for lovers have been shed, Too many sighs give we to them in fee, Too much of pity after they are dead. Too many doleful stories do we see. Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse Over the pathless waves towards him bows. But, for the general award of love, The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; Though Dido silent is in under- grove, And Isabella's was a great distress. Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, Enriched from ancestral merchandise. And for them many a weary hand did swelt In torched mines and noisy factories, And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes Many all day in dazzling river stood, To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. [96 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, And went all naked to the hungry shark ; For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe A thousand men in trovibles wide and dark : Half -ignorant, they turu'd an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? — Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs ? — Why were they proud ? Because red-lined accounts Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? — Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud, Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? XVII Yet were these Florentines as self -retired In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. XVIII How was it these same ledger-men could spy Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest Into their vision covetous and sly ! How could these money-bags see east and west ? — i ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 197 Yet so tliey did — and every dealer fair Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, And of thy roses amorous of the moon, And of thy lilies, that do paler grow Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, For venturing syllables that ill beseem The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; There is no other crime, no mad assail To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. These brethren having found by many signs What love Lorenzo for their sister had. And how she loved him too, each unconfines His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad That he, the servant of their trade designs. Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, "When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees To some high noble and his olive-trees. XXII And many a jealous conference had they, And many times they bit their lips alone, Before they fix'd upon a surest way To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 198 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And at the last, these men of cruel clay- Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ; For they resolved in some forest dim To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. XXIII So on a pleasant morning, as he leant Into the sunrise, o'er the balustrade Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, ' You seem there in the quiet of content, Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade Calm speculation ; but if you are wise, Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. * To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we mount To spur three leagues towards the Apennine; Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count His dewy rosary on the eglantine.' Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; And went in haste, to get in readiness. With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft If he could hear his lady's matin-song, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; And as he thus over his passion hung. He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; When, looking up, he saw her features bright Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. XXVI ' Love, Isabel ! ' said he, ' I was in pain Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 199 Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we '11 gain Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. Good bye ! I '11 soon be back.' — ' Good bye ! ' said she: — And as he went she chanted merrily. XXVII So the two brothers and their murder'd man Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream Gurgles through straighten'd banks, and still doth fan Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the water Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. XXVIII There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, There in that forest did his great love cease ; Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin : They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, Each richer by his being a murderer. They told their sister how, with sudden speed, Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, Because of some great urgency and need In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. Poor Girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands : To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 200 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; Sorely she wept until the night came on, And then, instead of love, O misery 1 She brooded o'er the luxury alone : His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, And to the silence made a gentle moan. Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, And on her couch low murmuring, ' Where ? O where ? ' But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; She fretted for the golden hour, and hung Upon the time with feverish unrest — Not long — for soon into her heart a throng Of higher occupants, a richer zest. Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, And sorrow for her love in travels rude. XXXII In the mid days of autumn, on their eves The breath of Winter comes from far away, And the sick west continually bereaves Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay Of death among the bushes and the leaves, To make all bare before he dares to stray From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel By gradual decay from beauty fell, Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale. Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes Could keep him off so long ? They spake a tale ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 201 Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, To see their sister in her snowy shroud. And she had died in drowsy ignorance. But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall For some few gasping moments ; like a lance, Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall With cruel pierce, and bringing him again Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears Had made a miry channel for his tears. Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, To speak as when on earth it was awake, And Isabella on its music hung : Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; And through it moan'd a ghostly undersong, Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. xxxvii Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 202 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 From the poor girl by magic of their light, The while it did unthread the horrid woof Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell, Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. Saying moreover, ' Isabel, my sweet ! Red whortleberries droop above my head, And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheepf old bleat Comes from beyond the river to my bed : Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, And it shall comfort me within the tomb. ' I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling Alone : I chant alone the holy mass, While little sounds of life are round me knelling. And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me. And thou art distant in Humanity. XL * I know what was, I feel full well what is. And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, That paleness warms my grave, as though I had A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ; Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel A greater love through all my essence steal.' ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 203 The Spirit mourn'd ' Adieu ! ' — dissolved, and left The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, And in the dawn she started up awake. XLII ' Ha ! ha ! ' said she, ' I knew not this'hard life, I thought the worst was simple misery ; I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die ; But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, And greet thee morn and even in the skies.' "When the full morning came, she had devised How she might secret to the forest hie ; How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, And sing to it one latest lullaby ; How her short absence might be unsurmised. While she the inmost of the dream would try. Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, And went into that dismal forest-hearse. See, as they creep along the river side, ■ How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, And, after looking round the champaign wide. Shows her a knife. — ' What feverous hectic flame Burns in thee, child ? — what good can thee betide. That thou shouldst smile again ? ' — The evening 204 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; The flint was there, the berries at his head. Who hath not loiter'd in a green churchyard, And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard. To see skull, coflSn'd bones, and funeral stole ; Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, And filling it once more with human soul ? Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. XLVI She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, Like to a native lily of the dell : Then with her knife, all sudden, she began To dig more fervently than misers can. Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies: She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, And put it in her bosom, where it dries And freezes utterly unto the bone Those dainties made to still an infant's cries ; Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, But to throw back at times her veiling hair. That old nurse stood beside her wondering, Until her heart felt pity to the core At sight of such a dismal labouring. And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, OR THE POT OF BASIL 205 And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore : At last they felt the kernel of the grave, And Isabella did not stamp and rave. Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? O for the gentleness of old Romance, The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, For here, in truth, it doth not well belong To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale. And taste the music of that vision pale. L With duller steel than the Persean sword They cut away no formless monster's head, But one, whose gentleness did well accord With death, as life. The ancient harps have said. Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord: If Love impersonate was ever dead. Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 'T was love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethron'd. In anxious secrecy they took it home, And then the prize was all for Isabel : She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, And all around each eye's sepulchral cell Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. She drench'd away : and still she comb'd, and kept Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd and wept. Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 2o6 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And divine liquids come with odorous ooze Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. LIII And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, And she forgot the blue above the trees, And she forgot the dells where waters run, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; She had no knowledge when the day was done, And the new morn she saw not : but in peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. And moisten' d it with tears unto the core. And so she ever fed it with thin tears. Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew. So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew Nurture besides, and life, from human fears. From the fast mouldering head there shut from view : So that the jewel, safely casketed, ■ Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms. Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 207 LVI Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. And touch the strings into a mystery ; Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; For simple Isabel is soon to be Among the dead: She withers, like a palm Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. O leave the palm to wither by itself ; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! — It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes : and many a curious elf. Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much Why she sat drooping by the Basil green. And why it flourish' d, as by magic touch ; Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean : They could not surely give belief, that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, And even remembrance of her love's delay. LIX Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain ; For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, And seldom felt she any hunger-pain : 2o8 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And when she left, she hurried back, as swift As bird on wing to breast its eggs again : And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And to examine it in secret place : The thing was vile with green and livid spot, And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : The guerdon of their murder they had got, And so left Florence in a moment's space, Never to turn again. — Away they went. With blood upon their heads, to banishment. LXI O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! O Echo, Echo, on some other day. From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! Spirits of grief, sing not your * Well-a-way !' For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; Will die a death too lone and incomplete, Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. LXII Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously : And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 'T was hid from her : ' For cruel 't is,' said she, ' To steal my Basil -pot away from me.' And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. Imploring for her Basil to the last. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA 209 No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd : Still is the burthen sung — * O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! ' TO HOMER Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind ! — but then the veil was rent, For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live, And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive ; Ay on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green ; There is a budding morrow in midnight ; There is a triple sight in blindness keen : Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia ! May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae ? Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward. Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? 2IO THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 O, give me their old vigour, and unheard Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span Of heaven and few ears. Rounded by thee, my song should die away Content as theirs. Rich in the simple worship of a day. SONG Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap — O sweet Isa- bel ! Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet. Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet, — Hush, hush ! soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my dear ! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear. No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there On the river, — all 's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care, Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly ; And the Moon, whether prudish or complai- sant. Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom. VERSES WRITTEN IN SCOTLAND 211 III Lift the latch ! ah gently ! ah tenderly — sweet ! We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink ! Well done — now those lips, and a flowery seat — The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink ; The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace and shall coo. While I kiss to the melody, aching all through. VERSES WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem. Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream, I dreamed long ago, now new begun. The short lived, paly Summer is but won From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam ; Though sapphire- warm, their Stars do never beam : All is cold Beauty ; pain is never done : For who has mind to relish, Minos- wise, The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue Sickly imagination and sick pride Cast wan upon it ! Burns ! with honour due I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies. 212 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 TO AILSA ROCK Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams ! "When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ? When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? How long is 't since the mighty power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid. Thou answer' St not ; for thou art dead asleep ; Thy life is but two dead eternities — The last in air, the former in the deep ; First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, Another cannot wake thy giant size. Ill WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE BURNS WAS BORN This mortal body of a thousand days Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom ! My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree, My head is light with pledging a great soul, My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal ; Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, — Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, — Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, — O smile among the shades, for this is fame ! VERSES WRITTEN IN SCOTLAND 213 AT FINGAL'S cave Not Aladdin magian Ever such a work began ; Not the wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see ; Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven. Golden aisled, built up in heaven, Gazed at such a rugged wonder. As I stood its roofing under. Lo ! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare ; While the surges wash'd his feet. And his garments white did beat Drench'd about the sombre rocks ; On his neck his well-grown locks. Lifted dry above the main. Were upon the curl again. ' What is this ? and what art thou ? ' Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow ; ' What art thou ? and what is this ? ' Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes ; Up he started in a trice : * I am Lycidas, ' said he, ' Famed in funeral minstrelsy ! This was architectured thus By the great Oceanus ! — Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day ; Here, by turns, his dolphins all, Finny palmers, great and small, Come to pay devotion due, — Each a mouth of pearls must strew ! 214 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Many a mortal of these days Dares to pass our sacred ways ; Dares to touch, audaciously, This cathedral of the sea ! I have been the pontiff-priest, Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars for ever ! Holy fire I have hid from mortal man ; Proteus is my Sacristan ! But the dulled eye of mortal Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal So for ever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place.' So saying, with a Spirit's glance He dived ! WRITTEN UPON THE TOP OF BEN NEVIS Read me a lesson. Muse, and speak it loud Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist ! I look into the chasms, and a shroud Vaporous doth hide them, — just so much wist Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead. And there is sullen mist, — even so much Mankind can tell of heaven ; mist is spread Before the earth, beneath me, — even such, Even so vague is man's sight of himself ! Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, — Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, I tread on them, — that all my eye doth meet Is mist and crag, not only on this height. But in the world of thought and mental might ! TO A LADY SEEN AT VAUXHALL 215 TRANSLATION FROM A SONNET OF RONSARD Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, For more adornment, a full thousand years ; She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes, And shaped and tinted her above all Peers : Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings, And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes With such a richness that the cloudy Kings Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. When from the Heavens I saw her first descend, My heart took fire, and only burning pains, They were my pleasures — they my Life's sad end ; Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins. TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW MO- MENTS AT VAUXHALL Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb. Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand, Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web. And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes' well-memoried light ; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight ; I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering. And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 2i6 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 FANCY Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home : At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her : Open wide the mind's cage-door, She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming ; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting : What do then ? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night ; When the soundless earth is muffled. And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad. With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! She has vassals to attend her : She will bring, in spite of frost. Beauties that the earth hath lost ; ; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather ; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 5^ i FANCY 217 All the hc^aped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth : She will mix these pleasures up .7 "k'; t].i\;e iit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear ; 40 Rustle of the reaped corn ; Sweet hirds antheming the morn : And, in the same moment — hark ! 'T is the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold ; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 50 Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep ; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin ; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest ; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing. Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose •, Everything is spoilt by use ; Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 70 2i8 THE POEMS OF - ; .j Whose lip mature is ever aew ? Where 's the eye, however blue, Does not weary ? Where 's tlie face One would meet in every place ? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so ve.-y oft ' At a touch sweet Plea; , . ; . .■ : eth Like to bubbles when : , ' 1 1 <. * h . Let, then, winged Fane Thee a mistress to thy i ;/ 80 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide ; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 90 Quickly break her prison- string. And such j oy s as these she '11 bring. — Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. ODE Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too. Double-lived in regions new ? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wond'rous And the parle of voices thund'rous ; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease SONG 219 Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing. But iivine melodious truth ; Philcsophic numbers smooth ; 20 Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then, On the earth ye live again ; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week ; 30 Of their sorrows and delights ; Of their passions and their spites ; Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day. Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too. Double-lived in regions new ! 40 SONG I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died ; And I have thought it died of grieving : 220 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 O, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weav- ing; Sweet little red feet ! why should you die — Why should you leave me, sweet bird ! why ? You lived alone in the forest-tree, Why, pretty thing ! would you not live with me? I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas ; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees ? ODE ON MELANCHOLY No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; Make not your rosary of yew-berries. Nor let the beetle, or the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud. That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hills in an April shroud ; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 221 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : Aye, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might. And be among her cloudy trophies hung. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith, II His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 222 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — already had his death-bell rung ; The j oys of all his life were said and sung : His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triump? s gay Of old romance. These let us wish away. And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times de- clare. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 2^3 VI They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they de- sire. VII Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : The music, yearning like a God in pain. She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired ; not cool'd by high disdain, But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort. Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 224 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous citadel : For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage : not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory -headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland : He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, ' Mercy, Porphyro 1 hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! XII * Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hilde- brand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 225 Tlien there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! Flit like a ghost away.' — 'Ah, Gossip dear, We 're safe enough ; here in this armchair sit. And tell me how ' — ' Good Saints ! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' XIII He follow'd through a lowly arched way, ^ Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; - And as she mutter'd ' Well-a — well-a-day ! ' He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. * Now tell me where is Madeline,' said he, * O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.* * St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days : Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so : it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night : good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve.' XV Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look. Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a v/ond'rous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 226 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown roSe, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot : then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : ' A cruel man and impious thou art : Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.' ' I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,' Quoth Porphyro : ' O may I ne'er iSnd grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace. Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.' ' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing. Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and even- ing, Were never miss'd.' Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 227 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 'It shall be as thou wishest,' said the Dame : ' All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.' So saying she hobbled oif with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; The Dame retm-n'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 228 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 XXII Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : With silver taper's light, and pious care. She turn'd, -and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. XXIII Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide : No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 229 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint ; She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. XXVI Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. xxvii Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself : then from the closet crept, '230 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how ■ fast she slept. m Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half-anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. XXX And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. XXXI These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — ' And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.' THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 231 XXXII Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk cui'tains: — 't was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence call'd ' La belle dame sans mercy : ' Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. XXXIV Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : There was a painful change, that nigh oYpeU'd The blisses of her dream so pure and d'.ep At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so Jicamingiy. XXXV * Ah, Porphyro ! ' said she, ' but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, . 232 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear \ - Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear I Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.* XXXVI Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odour with the violet, — Solution sweet : meantime the frost- wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. xxxvii 'T is dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : * This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ' 'T is dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : ' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? X curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.' xxxviii My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 233 A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think' st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. ' Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand : — The bloated wassailers will never heed : — Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.' She huri'ied at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop*d lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. XLI They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; — The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 234 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And they are gone : aye, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, "Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform : The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf -fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, 'or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? "What men or gods are these ? what maidens loth ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstacy ? II Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 235 III Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. For ever panting, and for ever young ; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. IV Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead' St thou that heifer lowing at the skies. And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea shore. Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V O Attic shade ! Fair attitude ! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 236 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 ODE ON INDOLENCE ' They toil not, neither do they spin.' I One morn before me were three figiires seen, With bowed necks, and j oined hands, side-faced ; And one behind the other stepp'd serene. In placid sandals, and in white robes graced ; They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn, When shifted round to see the other side ; They came again ; as when the urn once more Is shifted round, the first seen shades return ; And they were strange to me, as may betide With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? How came ye mulfled in so hush a mask ? Was it a silent deep-disguised plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy hour ; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower : O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness ? A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd Each one the face a moment whiles to me ; Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd And ached for wings, because I knew the three ; The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name ; The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, And ever watchful with fatigued eye ; The last, whom I love more, the more of blame ODE ON INDOLENCE 237 Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, — I knew to be my demon Poesy. IV They faded, and, forsooth 1 I wanted wings : O folly ! What is Love ? and where is it ? And for that poor Ambition ! it springs From a man's little heart's short fever-fit ; For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons, And evenings steep'd in honied indolence ; O, for an age so shelter' d from annoy, That I may never know how change the moons, Or hear the voice of busy common-sense ! And once more came they by ; — alas ! wherefore ? My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams ; My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams : The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May ; The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine. Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay ; O Shadows ! 't was a time to bid farewell ! Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. VI So, ye three Ghosts, adieu 1 Ye cannot raise My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass ; For I would not be dieted with praise, A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! Fade softly from my eyes and be once more In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn ; Farewell ! I yet have visions for the night. And for the day faint visions there is store ; Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle spright, Into the clouds, and nevermore return ! 238 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 SONNET "Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell ; No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell : Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart 1 Thou and I are here sad and alone ; I say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan. To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's lease. My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads ; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds ; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser — Death is Life's high meed. ODE TO FANNY Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest ; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. A theme ! a theme ! great Nature ! give theme ; Let me begin my dream. I come — I see thee, as thou standest there ; Beckon me not into the wintry air. Ah ! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears. And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, — To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight. As brilliant and as bright. As when with ravish'd, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze ! ODE TO FANNY 239 Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast 1 What stare outfaces now my silver moon ! Ah ! keep that hand unravished at the least ; Let, let the amorous burn — But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O ! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love ! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air, Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath ; Be like an April day Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lily, temperatf> as fair ; Then, Heaven ! there will be A warmer June for me. Why, this — you '11 say, my "my ! is not true: Put your soft hand upon y: ^r snowy side, Where the heart beats : confess — 't is nothing new — Must not a woman be I A feather on the sea, [ Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead ? I know it — and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny ! Whose heart goes fluttering for you everywhere, Nor, when away you roam. Dare keep its wretched home : Love, love alone, has pains severe and many : Then, loveliest ! keep me free From torturing jealousy. Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour ; ^o THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 j« I none profane my Holy See of love, Or with a rude hand break 'r>ie sacramental cake: Let lone else touch the just new-budded flower; If 'lot — may my eyes close, Lo^ c ! on their last repose. A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAOLO AND FRANCESCA As Hermes once rook to his feathers light, "When liiliod Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright So play'd, so cL-arm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft The dragon- world 01 a, ' its hundred eyes ; And seeing it asleep, so fled away — Not to pure Ida with its siiow-cold skies. Nor unto Tempe where J ove grieved a day ; But to that second circle of Md hell. Where 'mid the gust, the w ' lirl wind, and the flaw Of rain and hai] stonefi, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw. Pale were the lips i kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with, about that melancholy storm. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering ? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone ? LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 241 The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest 's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew ; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful — a faery's child ; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. VII She found me roots of relish sweet. And honey wild, and manna dew ; And sure in language strange she said — 'I love thee true.' VIII She took me to her elfin grot. And there she gazed, and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild wild eyes So kiss'd to sleep. 242 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 IX And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; They cried — ' La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall ! ' I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. CHORUS OF FAIRIES FIKE, AIK, EARTH, AND WATER SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND BREAMA SALAMANDER Happy, happy glowing fire ! ZEPHYR Fragrant air 1 delicious light ! DUSKETHA Let me to my glooms retire ! CHORUS OF FAIRIES 243 BREAMA I to green-weed rivers bright ! SALAMANDER Happy, happy glowing fire ! Dazzling bowers of soft retire, Ever let my nourish'd wing, Like a bat's, still wandering, Faintly fan your fiery spaces, Spirit sole in deadly places. 10 In unhaunted roar and blaze, Open eyes that never daze, Let me see the myriad shapes Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes, Portray'd in many a fiery den, And wrought by spumy bitumen. On the deep intenser roof, Arched every way, aloof, Let me breathe upon my skies, And anger their live tapestries ; ao Free from cold, and every care. Of chilly rain, and shivering air. ZEPHYR Spright of Fire ! away ! away ! Or your very roundelay Will sear my plumage newly budded From its quilled sheath, and studded With the self-same dews that fell On the May-grown Asphodel. Spright of Fire — away ! away 1 Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 30 Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn. And see my cool sedge-shaded urn. Where it rests its mossy brim 'Mid water-mint and cresses dim ; 244 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And th» flowers, in sweet troubles, Lift their eyes above the bubbles, Like our Queen, when she would please To sleep, and Oberon will tease. Love me, blue-eyed Faery ! true, Soothly I am sick for you. 40 ZEPHYR Gentle Breama ! by the first Violet young nature nurst, I will bathe myself with thee, So you sometime follow me To my home, far, far, in west, Far beyond the search and quest Of the golden-browed sun. Come with me, o'er tops of trees, To my fragrant palaces, Where they ever floating are 50 Beneath the cherish of a star Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil Ever hides his brilliance pale. Ever gently-drowsed doth keep Twilight for the Fays to sleep. Fear not that your watery hair Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there ; Clouds of stored summer rains Thou shalt taste, before the stains Of the mountain soil they take, 60 And too unlucent for thee make. I love thee, crystal Faery, true ! Sooth I am as sick for you ! SALAMANDER Out, ye aguish Faeries, out ! Chilly lovers, what a rout Keep ye with yoiu- frozen breath, Colder than the mortal death. Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak, Shall we leave them, and go seek CHORUS OF FAIRIES 245 In the earth's wide entrails old 70 Couches warm as theirs is cold ? for a fiery gloom and thee, Dusketha, so enchantingly Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided ! DUSKETHA By thee, Spright, will I be guided ! 1 care not for cold or heat ; Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet, To my essence are the same ; — But I honour more the flame. Spright of fire, I follow thee 80 Wheresoever it may be ; To the torrid spouts and fountains, Underneath earth-quaked mountains ; Or, at thy supreme desire, Touch the very pulse of fire With my bare unlidded eyes. SALAMANDER Sweet Dusketha ! paradise ! Off, ye icy Spirits, fly ! Frosty creatures of the sky ! DUSKETHA Breathe upon them, fiery Spright ! 90 ZEPHYR, BREAMA {to each other) Away ! away to our delight ! SALAMANDER Go, feed on icicles, while we Bedded in tongued flames will be. DUSKETHA Lead me to these fev'rous glooms, Spright of Fire ! 246 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Me to the blooms, Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers : And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are all whist, Are shed thro' the rain and the milder mist, And twilight your floating bowers. 100 FAERY SONGS I Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more ! O weep no more ! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies — Shed no tear. < Overhead ! look overhead 'Mong the blossoms white and red — Look up, look up — I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me ! 't is this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, Adieu — I fly, adieu, I vanish in the heaven's blue — Adieu, Adieu ! Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! That I must chant thy lady's dirge, ON FAME 247 And death to this fair haunt of spring, Of melody, and streams of flowery verge, — Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me ! That I must see These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall ! Go, pretty page ! and in her ear Whisper that the hour is near ! Softly tell her not to fear Such calm favonian burial ! Go, pretty page ! and soothly tell, — The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice Upon her closed eyes, That now in vain are weeping their last tears, At sweet life leaving, and those arbours green, — Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres, — Alas ! poor Queen ! ON FAME ' You cannot eat your cake and have it too.' — Proverb. How fever'd is that man, who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book. And robs his fair name of its maidenhood : It is as if the rose should pluck herself. Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom ; As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf. Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom. But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed. And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space : Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? 248 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 ANOTHER ON FAME Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees, But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those Who have not learnt to be content without her ; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ; Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for scorn ; Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye are ! Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. TO SLEEP O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight. Shutting, with careful fingers and benign. Our gloomj^leased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine : O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its dewy charities ; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes ; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole ; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. And seal the hushed casket of my soul. ODE TO PSYCHE 249 ODE TO PSYCHE Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ? 1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied : 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? His Psyche true ! Ill O latest- born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy 1 Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowxrs ; 2SO THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours ; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming ; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. brightest ! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre. When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; Yet even in these days so far retired ^ From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind. Where branched thoughts, new- grown with pleasant pain. Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep, And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 251 With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in ! SONNET If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness ; Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, Sandals more interwoven and complete To fit the naked foot of poesy ; Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd By ear industrious, and attention meet ; Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead leaves in the bay- wreath crown : So, if we may not let the Muse be free. She will be bound with garlands of her own. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE I My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 252 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth 1 O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster' d around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 253 V I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, / Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. VI Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain', While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstacy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. VII Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 254 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 VIII Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf, * Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 't is buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? LAMIA PART I Upon a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, Before King Oberon's bright diadem, Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipp'd lawns, The ever-smitten Hermes empty left His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft ; From high Olympus had he stolen light. On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 10 Of his great summer, and made retreat Into a forest on the shores of Crete. For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored. Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, LAMIA 255 Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 20 Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, Breathing upon the flowers his passion new. And wound with many a river to its head. To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed : 30 In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, And so he rested, on the lonely ground, Pensive, and full of painful jealousies Of the Wood^Gods, and even the very trees. There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : * When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake ! When move in a sweet body fit for life. And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 40 Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! ' The God, dove-footed, glided silently Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, Until he found a palpitating snake, Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd ; 50 And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. 256 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire ; Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls com- plete : 60 And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair? As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake, And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : ' Fair Hermes ! crown' d with feathers, fluttering light, I had a splendid dream of thee last night : I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 70 Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chanting clear. Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moan. I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks, And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart. Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid ? ' 80 Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : ' Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high-inspired I Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes. Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — LAMIA 257 Where she doth breathe ! ' * Bright planet, thou hast said,' Return'd the snake, ' but seal with oaths, fair God ! ' ' I swear,' said Hermes, ' by my serpent rod, And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! 90 Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown. Then thus again the brilliance feminine : ' Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, Free as the air, invisibly, she strays About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet ; From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green, She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : And by my power is her beauty veil'd 100 To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd By the love- glances of unlovely eyes. Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. Pale grew her immortality, for woe Of all these lovers, and she grieved so I took compassion on her, bade her steep Her hair in wei'rd syrops, that would keep Her loveliness invisible, yet free To wander as she loves, in liberty. Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, no If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon ! ' Then, once again, the charmed God began An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said, ' I was a woman, let me have once more A woman's shape, and charming as before. I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss! Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. 120 Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, 258 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now/ The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. It was no dream ; or say a dream it was, Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd ; Then, lighting on the pnntless verdure, turn'd 131 To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm, Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent Full of adoring tears and blandishment. And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower That faints into itself at evening hour : But the God fostering her chilled hand, 140 She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland, And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. Into the green -recessed woods they flew ; Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. Left to herself, the serpent now began To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith be- sprent, Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, 150 Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without cooling tear. The colours all inflamed throughout her train, She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain A deep volcanian yellow took the place 1 LAMIA 259 Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; And, as the lava ravishes the mead, Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 160 So that, in moments few, she was undrest Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst. And rubious-argent : of all these bereft, Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. Still shone her crown ; that vanish'd, also she Melted and disappear'd as suddenly ; And in the air, her new voice luting soft. Cried, 'Lycius ! gentle Lycius! ' — Borne aloft With the bright mists about the mountains hoar These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? She fled into that valley they pass o'er Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore ; And rested at the foot of those wild hills, The rugged founts of the Persean rills, And of that other ridge whose barren back Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack. South-westward to Cleone. There she stood About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 180 Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. By a clear pool, wherein she passioned To see herself escaped from so sore ills, While her robes flaunted with the daffodils. Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid More beautiful than ever twisted braid, Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore Of love deep learned to the red heart's core : 190 26o THE POEMS OP' 1818-1819 Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ; Define their pettish limits, and estrange Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ; As though in Cupid's college she had spent Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. Why this fair creature chose so fairily 21 By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; But first 't is fit to tell how she could muse And dream, when in the serpent prison-house. Of all she list, strange or magnificent : How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; Whether to faint Elysium, or where Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine. Stretch' d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 2 Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. And sometimes into cities she would send Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, She saw the young Corinthian Lycius Charioting foremost in the envious race. Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, And fell into a swooning love of him. Now on the moth- time of that evening dim 2 He would return that way, as well she knew. To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew The eastern soft wind, and his galley now Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle Fresh anchor'd ; whither he had been awhile To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there LAMIA 261 Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; For by some freakful chance he made retire 230 From his companions, and set forth to walk, Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : Over the solitary hills he fared, Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appear'd His phantasy was lost, where reason fades. In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — Close to her passing, in indifference drear, His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen 240 She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries. His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white Turn'd — syllabling thus, ' Ah, Lycius bright ! And will you leave me on the hills alone ? Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown.' He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly. But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ; For so delicious were the words she sung. It seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long : And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 251 Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid Lest she should vanish ere his lips had paid Due adoration, thus began to adore ; Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure : ' Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see "Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! For pity do not this sad heart belie — Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 260 Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 262 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, Alone they can drink up the morning rain : Though a descended Pleiad, will not one Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade, Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 270 For pity do not melt ! ' — ' If I should stay,' Said Lamia, ' here, upon this floor of clay, And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough. What canst thou say or do of charm enough To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — Empty of immortality and bliss ! Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know That finer spirits cannot breathe below 280 In human climes, and live ; Alas ! poor youth, What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe My essence ? What serener palaces, Where I may all my many senses please, And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts ap- pease ? It cannot be — Adieu ! ' So said, she rose Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose The amorous promise of her lone complain, Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. The cruel lady, without any show 290 Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. With brighter eyes and slow amenity. Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh The life she had so tangled in her mesh : And as he from one trance was weakening Into another, she began to sing, Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing, LAMIA 263 A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant- ing fires. 300 And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone. As those who, safe together met alone For the first time through many anguish'd days, Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, For that she was a woman, and without Any more subtle fluid in her veins Than throbbing blood, and that the self -same pains Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 310 Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said, She dwelt but half retired, and there had led Days happy as the gold coin could invent Without the aid of love ; yet in content Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd Of amorous herbs and flowers, aewly reap'd Late on that eve, as 't was the night before The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more, 320 But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ? Lycius from death awoke into amaze, To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; Then from amaze into delight he fell To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; And every word she spake enticed him on To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. Let the mad poets say whate'er they please Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, There is not such a treat among them all, 330 Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, As a real woman, lineal indeed From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright, 264 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 That Lycius could not love in half a fright, So threw the goddess off, and won his heart More pleasantly by playing woman's part, With no more awe than what her beauty gave, That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 340 Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh : And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, If 't was too far that night for her soft feet. The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease To a few paces ; not at all surmised By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised : They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. So noiseless, and he never thought to know. As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 350 Throughout her palaces imperial. And all her populous streets and temples lewd, Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd. To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, Companion'd or alone ; while many a light Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals. And threw their moving shadows on the walls, Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade 360 Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear. Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown, Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown: Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past. Into his mantle, adding wings to haste. While hurried Lamia trembled : ' Ah,' said he, 'Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? LAMIA 265 Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ? ' — 370 ' I 'm wearied,' said fair Lamia : * tell me who Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind His features: — Lycius ! wherefore did you blind Yourself from his quick eyes ? ' Lycius replied, ' 'T is Apollonius sage, my trusty guide And good instructor ; but to-night he seems The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.' "While yet he spake they had arrived before A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 380 Reflected in the slabbed steps below, Mild as a star in water ; for so new And so unsullied was the marble hue, So through the crystal polish, liquid fine, Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds ^olian Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown Some time to any, but those two alone. And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 390 Were seen about the markets : none knew where They could inhabit ; the most curious Were foil'd, who watch' d to trace them to their house : And but the flitter- winged verse must tell, For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell, 'T would humour many a heart to leave them thus. Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. PART II Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 266 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 That is a doubtful tale from faery land, Hard for the non-elect to understand. Had Lycius lived to hand his story down, He might have given the moral a fresh frown. Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bliss To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. 10 Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, Above the lintel of their chamber door, And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. For all this came a ruin : side by side They were enthroned, in the even tide, Upon a couch, near to a curtaining Whose airy texture, from a golden string, Floated into the room, and let appear 20 Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear, Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed. Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed. Saving a tithe which love still open kept. That they might see each other while they almost slept ; When from the slope side of a suburb hill. Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled. But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. For the first time, since first he harbour'd in 30 That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn Into the noisy world almost forsworn. The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, Saw this with pain, so arguing a want Of something more, more than her empery Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh Because he mused beyond her, knowing well That but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell. LAMIA 267 'Why do you sigh, fair creature ?' whisper'd he : 40 ' Why do you think ? ' return'd she tenderly : ' You have deserted me ; — where am I now ? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow : No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and I go From your breast houseless : aye, it must be so.' He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, ' My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, While I am striving how to fill my heart 50 With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? How to entangle, trammel up and snare Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there, Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! What mortal hath a prize, that other men May be confounded and abash'd withal, But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60 Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, While through the thronged streets your bridal car Wheels round its dazzling spokes.' — The lady's cheek Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek. Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 70 Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; Besides, for all his love, in self despite. Against his better self, he took delight Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 268 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. Fine was the mitigated fury, like Apollo's presence when in act to strike The serpent — Ha ! the serpent ! certes, she 80 Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, And, all subdued, consented to the hour When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, ' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth, I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, As still I do. Hast any mortal name, Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, 90 To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ? ' * I have no friends,' said Lamia, ' no, not one ; My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : My parents' bones are in their dusty urns Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me. And I neglect the holy rite for thee. Even as you list invite your many guests ; But if, as now it seems, your vision rests With any pleasure on me, do not bid 100 Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid.' Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank. Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. It was the custom then to bring away The bride from home at blushing shut of day, Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, With other pageants : but this fair unknown no Had not a friend. So being left alone. LAMIA 269 (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin,) And knowing snrely she could never win His foolish heart from its mad pompousness. She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress The misery in fit magnificence. She did so, but 't is doubtful how and whence Came, and who were her subtle servitors. About the halls, and to and from the doors, There was a noise of wings, till in short space 120 The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace. A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade Of palm and plantain, met from either side, High in the midst, in honour of the bride : Two palms and then two plantains, and so on. From either side their stems branch'd one to one All down the aisled place ; and beneath all 130 There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall. So canopied, lay an untasted feast Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest, Silently paced about, and as she went, In pale contented sort of discontent, Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich The fretted splendour of each nook and niche. Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 140 And with the larger wove in small intricacies. Approving all, she faded at self-will, And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still. Complete and ready for the revels rude, When dreadful guests would come to spoil her soli- tude. 270 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours, And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? The herd approach' d ; each guest, with busy brain, Arriving at the portal, gazed amain, 151 And enter'd marvelling : for they knew the street, Remember'd it from childhood all complete "Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere : 'T was Apollonius : something too he laugh'd. As though some knotty problem, that had daft 160 His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, And solve and melt : — 't was just as he foresaw. He met within the murmurous vestibule His young disciple. ' 'T is no common rule, Lycius, '■ said he, ' for uninvited guest To force himself upon you, and infest "With an unbiddden presence the bright throng Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong, And you forgive me.' Lycius blush'd, and led The old man through the inner doors broadspread ; With reconciling words and courteous mien 171 Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume : Before each lucid panel fuming stood A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke From fifty censers their light voyage took 180 To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose LAMIA 271 Along the mirror'd walls by twin- clouds odorous. Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats inspher'd, High as the level of a man's breast rear'd On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood. Each shrihing in the midst the image of a God. 190 When in an antechamber every guest Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, By ministering slaves, upon his hands and feet, And fragrant oils with ceremony meet Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast In white robes, and themselves in order placed Around the silken couches, wondering Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring. Soft went the music the soft air along, While fluent Greek a vowel'd under-song 200 Kept up among the guests, discoursing low At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains, Louder they talk, and louder come the strains Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, The space, the splendour of the draperies. The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. And every soul from human trammels freed, 210 No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine, Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height ; Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright : Garlands of every green, and every scent 272 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 From vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch-rent. In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought Of every guest : that each, as he did please, Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. "What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 221 What for the sage, old Apollonius ? Upon her aching forehead be there hung The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage. Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage War on his temples. Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 230 There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : We know her woof, her texture ; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line. Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender- person' d Lamia melt into a shade. By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, Scarce saw in all the room another face, 240 Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir, Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride. Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch. As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 25° LAMIA 273 'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. ' Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou start ? Know'st thou that man?' Poor Lamia answer'd not. He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : More, more he gazed : his human senses reel: Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ; There was no recognition in those orbs: 260 ' Lamia ! ' he cried — and no soft- toned reply. The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush : the stately music no more breathes ; The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased A deadly silence step by step increased. Until it seem'd a horrid presence there. And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. ' Lamia ! ' he shriek'd ; and nothing but the shriek With its sad echo did the silence break. 270 * Begone, foul dream ! ' he cried, gazing again In the bride's face, where now no azure vein Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 'Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man! Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images Here represent their shadowy presences, 280 May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn, In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright Of conscience, for their long-offended might, For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries^ Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 274 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch! Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 ' Fool ! ' said the sophist, in an under-tone Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost. He sank supine beside the aching ghost. ' Fool ! Fool ! ' repeated he, while his eyes still Relented not, nor moved ; ' from every ill Of life have I preserved thee to this day, And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey ? ' Then Lamia breathed death breath ; the sophist's eye, Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 300 Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well As her weak hand could any meaning tell, Motion'd him to be silent ; vainly so. He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! * A serpent ! ' echoed he ; no sooner said. Than with a frightful scream she vanished : And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. As were his limbs of life, from that same night. On the high couch he lay! — his friends came round — Supported him — no pulse or breath they found, 310 And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 275 DRAMAS OTHO THE GREAT A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS DRAMATIS PERSONiE Otho the Great, Emperor of Germany. LuDOLPH, Ms Son. Conrad, DuJce of Franconia. Albert, a Knight, favoured by Otho. SiGiFRED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph. Theodore, / GONFRED, f ^^^^^^- Ethelbert, an Abbot. Gersa, Prince of Hungary. An Hungarian Captain. Physician. Page. Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Soldiers. Erminia, Niece of Otho. Auranthe, Conrad^s Sister. Ladies and Attendants. Scene. — The Castle ofFriedburg, its vicinity, and the Hun- garian Camp. Time. — One Day. ACT I Scene I. — An Apartment in the Castle Enter Conrad Conrad. So, I am safe emerged from these broils! Amid the wreck of thousands I am whole ; For every crime I have a laurel-wreath, For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has My ship of fortune furl'd her silken sails, — Let her glide on ! This danger'd neck is saved, 276 DRAMAS act i By dexterous policy, from the rebel's axe ; And of my ducal palace not one stone Is bruised by the Hungarian petards. Toil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser-earth lo Bring forth once more my bullion, treasured deep, With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and gold, And precious goblets that make rich the wine. But why do I stand babbling to myself ? Where is Auranthe ? I have news for her Shall — Enter Auranthe Auranthe. Conrad ! what tidings ? Good, if I may guess From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows. What tidings of the battle? Albert? Ludolph ? Otho? Conrad. You guess aright. And, sister, slurring o'er Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart 20 Is beating with a child's anxiety. To make our golden fortune known to you. Auranthe. So serious ? Conrad. Yes, so serious, that before I utter even the shadow of a hint Concerning what will make that sin- worn cheek Blush joyous blood through every lineament, You must make here a solemn vow to me. Auranthe. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not overact The hypocrite. What vow would you impose ? Conrad. Trust me for once. That you may be assured 30 'T is not confiding to a broken reed, A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost, Revolve these facts in your acutest mood. In such a mood as now you listen to me : — A few days since, I was an open rebel, — Against the Emperor, had suborn'd his son, — SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 277 Drawn off his nobles to revolt, — and shown Contented fools causes for discontent, Fresh hatched in my ambition's eagle-nest ; So thrived I as a rebel, — and, behold ! 40 Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend, His right hand, his brave Conrad. Auranthe. I confess You have intrigued with these unsteady times To admiration ; but to be a favourite — Conrad. I saw my moment. The Hungarians, Collected silently in holes and corners, Appear'd, a sudden host, in the open day. I should have perish'd in our empire's wreck, But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith To most believing Otho ; and so help'd 50 His blood-stain'd ensigns to the victory In yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kindness. Auranthe. So far yourself. But what is this to me More than that I am glad ? I gratulate you. Conrad. Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly, Nearly, momentously, — aye, painfully ! Make me this vow — Auranthe. Concerning whom or what ? Conrad. Albert ! Auranthe. I would inquire somewhat of him : You had a letter from me touching him ? 60 No treason 'gainst his head in deed or word ! Surely you spared him at my earnest prayer ? Give me the letter — it should not exist ! Conrad. At one pernicious charge of the enemy, I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta'en And rifled, — stuff ! the horses' hoofs have minced it! Auranthe. He is alive ? Conrad. He is ! but here make oath To alienate him from your scheming brain, 278 DRAMAS act i Divorce him from your solitary thoughts, And cloud him in such utter banishment, 70 That when his person meets again your eye, Your vision shall quite lose its memory, And wander past him as through vacancy. Auranthe. I '11 not be perj ured. Conrad. No, nor great, nor mighty ; You would not wear a crown, or rule a kingdom. To you it is indifferent. Auranthe. What means this ? Conrad. You '11 not be perjured ! Go to Albert then. That camp-mushroom — dishonour of our house. Go, page his dusty heels upon a march. Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps, 80 And share his mouldy ration in a siege. Yet stay, — perhaps a charm may call you back. And make the widening circlets of your eyes Sparkle with healthy fevers. — The Emperor Hath given consent that you should marry Lu- dolph ! Auranthe. Can it be, brother ? For a golden crown With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank you ! This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell Thou clod of yesterday — 't was not myself ! Not till this moment did I ever feel 90 My spirit's faculties ! I '11 flatter you For this, and be you ever proud of it ; Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead. And from the teeming marrow of thy brain I spring complete Minerva ! but the prince — His highness Ludolph — where is he ? Conrad: I know not : When, lackying my counsel at a beck. The rebel lords, on bended knees, received The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof, Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride ; 100 SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 279 Yet, for all this, I never saw a father In such a sickly longing for his son. We shall soon see him, for the Emperor He will be here this morning. Auranthe. That I heard Among the midnight rumours from the camp. Conrad. You give up Albert to me ? Auranthe. Harm him not ! E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry hand, I would not Albert suffer any wrong. Conrad. Have I not laboured, plotted — ? Auranthe. See you spare him : Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor ! no On all the many bounties of your hand, — 'T was for yourself you laboured — not for me ! Do you not count, when I am queen, to take Advantage of your chance discoveries Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod Over my life ? Conrad. Let not this slave — this villain — Be cause of feud between us. See ! he comes ! Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite safe ! In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the way, And wish'd with silent curses in my grave, 120 Or side by side with 'whelmed mariners. Enter Albert. Albert. Fair on your graces fall this early mor- row! So it is like to do without my prayers. For your right noble names, like favourite tunes. Have fallen full frequent from our Emperoi-'s lips. High commented with smiles. Auranthe. Noble Albert! Conrad {aside). Noble ! Auranthe. Such salutation argues a glad heart In our prosperity. We thank you, sir. Albert. Lady I 28o DRAMAS act i O, would to Heaven your poor servant Could do you better service than mere words! 130 But I have other greeting than mine own, From no less man than Otho, who has sent This ring as pledge of dearest amity ; 'T is chosen I hear from Hymen's jewelry, And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not, Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come. To you great duke — Conrad. To me ! What of me, ha ? Albert. What pleased your grace to say ? Conrad. Your message, sir ! Albert. You mean not this to me ? Conrad. Sister, this way ; For there shall be no ' gentle Alberts ' now, 140 No ' sweet Auranthes ! ' [Exeunt Conrad and Auranthe. Albert (solus). The duke is out of temper ; if he knows More than a brother of his sister ought, I should not quarrel with his peevishness. Auranthe — Heaven preserve her always fair ! — Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein ; I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell ! She has taken flight from me, then let her soar, — He is a fool who stands at pining gaze ! But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sorrow : 150 m No leveling bluster of my licensed thoughts, | No military swagger of my mind, Can smother from myself the wrong I 've done him, — Without design indeed, — yet it is so, — And opiate for the conscience have I none ! [Exit. SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 281 Scene II. — The Court-yard of the Castle Martial Music. Enter, from, the outer gate, Otho, Nobles, Knights, and Attendants. The Soldiers halt at the gate, with Banners in sight. Otho. Where is my noble Herald ? Enter Conrad, from the Castle, attended ly two Knights and Servants. Albert following. Well, hast told Auranthe our intent imperial ? Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden shown, Should fright her silken casements, and dismay Her household to our lack of entertainment. A victory ! Conrad. God save illustrious Otho ! Otho. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all gray hairs ; It is the best physician for the spleen ; The courtliest inviter to a feast ; The subtlest excuser of small faults ; 10 And a nice judge in the age and smack of wine. Enter from the Castle, Ajj-rk^hwe., followed by Pages, holding up her robes, and a train of Women. She kneels. Hail my sweet hostess ! I do thank the stars, Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes, That, after such a merry battle fought, I can, all safe in body and in soul. Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too. My ring ! now, on my life, it doth rejoice These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory ! Keep it, my brightest daughter ; it may prove The little prologue to a line of kings. 20 I strove against thee and my hot-blood son, 282 DRAMAS ACT i Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind, But now my sight is clear ; forgive me, lady. Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to your frown, And now your favour makes me but more humble ; In wintry winds the simple snow is safe, But fadeth at the greeting of the sun : Unto thine anger I might well have spoken, Taking on me a woman's privilege, But this so sudden kindness makes me dumb. 30 Otho. What need of this ? Enough, if you will be A potent tutoress to my wayward boy. And teach him, what it seems his nurse could not, To say, for once, I thank you ! Sigif red ! Albert. He has not yet returned, my gracious liege. Otho. What then ! No tidings of my friendly Arab ? Conrad. None, mighty Otho. \^To one of Ms Knights who goes out. Send forth instantly An hundred horsemen from my honoured gates, To scour the plains and search the cottages. Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring 40 News of that vanished Arabian, A fuU-heap'd helmet of the purest gold. Otho. More thanks, good Conrad ; for, except my son's, There is no face I rather would behold Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By the saints, This coming night of banquets must not light Her dazzling torches ; nor the music breathe Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace And in-door melodies : nor the ruddy wine Ebb spouting to the lees ; if I pledge not, 50 In my first cup, that Arab ! Albert. Mighty Monarch, I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the fight SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 283 It was my chance to meet his olive brow, Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd rhomb ; And, to say truth, in any Christian arm I never saw such prowess. OtJio. Did you ever ? O, 't is a noble boy ! — tut ! — what do I say ? I mean a^triple Saladin, whose eyes. When in the glorious scuffle they met mine, 60 Seem'd to say — ' Sleep, old man, in safety sleep ; I am the victory ! ' Conrad. Pity he 's not here. Otho. And my son too, pity he is not here. Lady Auranthe, I would not make you blush, But can you give a guess where Ludolph is ? Know you not of him ? Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret — Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, dost know of him ? Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortunate, Both for his sake and mine, and to make glad A father's ears with tidings of his son. 70 Otho. I see 'tis like to be a tedious day. "Were Theodore and Gonfred and the rest Sent forth with my commands ? Albert. Aye, my lord. Otlio. And no news ! No news ! 'Faith ! 't is very strange He thus avoids us. Lady, is 't not strange ? Will he be truant to you too ? It is a shame. Conrad. Will 't please your highness enter, and accept, The unworthy welcome of your servant's house ? Leaving your cares to one whose diligence May in few hours make pleasures of them all. 80 Otho. Not so tedious, Conrad. No, no, no, — I must see Ludolph or the — What 's that shout ? Voices loithout. Huzza ! huzza ! Long live the Emperor ! 284 DRAMAS act i Other voices. Fall back ! Away there ! Otho. Say what noise is that ? Albert advancing from the hack of the whither he had hastened on hearing the cheers of the soldiery. Albert. It is young Gersa, the Hungarian prince, Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd Of prisoners. Poor prince, forlorn he steps, Slow, and demure, and proud in his despair. If I may judge by his so tragic bearing, His eyes not downcast, and his folded arm, 90 He doth this moment wish himself asleep Among his fallen captains on yon plains. Enter Gersa, in chains, and guarded. Otho. Well said. Sir Albert. Gersa. Not a word of greeting, No welcome to a princely visitor. Most mighty Otho ? Will not my great host Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids His gentlemen conduct me with all care To some securest lodging — cold perhaps ! OtTio. What mood is this ? Hath fortune touch'd thy brain ? Oersa. O kings and princes of this fev'rous world. What abject things, what mockeries must ye be, loi What nerveless minions of safe palaces ! When here, a monarch, whose proud foot is used To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup, Must needs exclaim that I am mad forsooth, Because I cannot flatter with bent knees My conqueror ! Otho. Gersa, I think you wrong me : I think I have a better fame abroad. Oersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gentle speech, But, as a favour, bid me from thy presence ; no Let me no longer be the wondering food Of all these eyes ; pr'ythee command me hence I SCENE 11 OTHO THE GREAT 285 Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That you may not, Come, fair xliirantlie, try if j^our soft hands Can manage those hard rivets to set free So brave a prince and soldier. Auranthe {sets Mm free). Welcome task ! Gersa. I am woiind up in deep astonishment ! Thank you, fair lady. Otho ! emperor ! You rob me of myself ; my dignity Is now your infant ; I am a weak child. 120 Otiio. Give me your hand, and let this kindly grasp Live in our memories. Gersa. In mine it will. I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue ; But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost Of all our slain battalions. Sire, reflect, And pardon you will grant, that, at this hour. The bruised remnants of our stricken camp Are huddling undistinguish'd my dear friends, With common thousands, into shallow graves. Otho. Enough, most noble Gersa. You are free 130 To cheer the brave remainder of your host By your own healing presence, and that too. Not as their leader merely, but their king ; For, as I hear, the wily enemy. Who eased the crownet from your infant brows. Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead. Gersa. Then I retire, so generous Otho please, Bearing with me a weight of benefits Too heavy to be borne. OtJio. It is not so ; Still understand me, King of Hungary, 140 Nor judge my open purposes awry. Though I did hold you high in my esteem For your self's sake, I do not personate The stage-play emperor to entrap applause, To set the silly sort 0' the world agape. 286 DRAMAS act i And make the politic smile ; no, I have heard How in the Council you condemn' d this war, Urging the perfidy of broken faith, — For that I am your friend. Gersa. If ever, sire, You are my enemy, I dare here swear 150 'T will not be Gersa' s fault. Otho, farewell ! Otho. Will you return, Prince, to our banqueting ? Gersa. As to my father's board I will return. Otho. Conrad, with all due ceremony, give The prince a regal escort to his camp ; Albert, go thou and bear him company. Gersa, farewell ! Gersa. All happiness attend you ! Otho. Return with what good speed you may ; for soon We must consult upon our terms of peace. [Exeu?it Gersa and Albert with others. And thus a marble column do I build 160 To prop my empire's dome. Conrad, in thee I have another steadfast one, to uphold The portals of my state ; and, for my own Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive To keep thy strength upon its pedestal. For, without thee, this day I might have been A show-monster about the streets of Prague, In chains, as j ust now stood that noble prince : And then to me no mercy had been shown. For when the conquer'd lion is once dungeon'd, 170 Who lets him forth again ? or dares to give An old lion sugar-cakes of mild reprieve ? Not to thine ear alone I make confession, But to all here, as, by experience, I know how the great basement of all power Is frankness, and a true tongue to the world ; And how intriguing secrecy is proof Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state. Conrad, I owe thee much. SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 287 Conrad. To kiss that hand, My emperor, is ample recompense, 180 For a mere act of duty. Otho. Thou art wrong ; For what can any man on earth do more ? We will make trial of your house's welcome, My bright Auranthe ! Conrad. How is Friedburg honoured ! Enter Ethelbert and six Monies. Ethelbert. The benison of heaven on your head, Imperial Otho ! OtJio. Who stays me ? Speak ! Quick ! Ethelbert. Pause but one moment, mighty con- queror ! Upon the threshold of this house of joy. Otho. Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, but speak What is your purpose. Ethelbert. The restoration of some captive maids. Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries, 191 Who, driven forth from their religious cells, And kept in thraldom by our enemy, When late this province was a lawless spoil. Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp. Though hemm'd around by thy victorious arms. Otho. Demand the holy sisterhood in our name From Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethelbert. Ethelbert. The saints will bless you for this pious care. Otho. Daughter, your hand ; Ludolph's would fit it best. 200 Conrad. Ho ! let the music sound ! {^Music. Ethelbert raises his hands^ as in benedic- tion o/Otho. Exeunt severally. Tlie scene closes on them. 288 DRAMAS act i Scene III. — The Country^ with the Castle in the distance Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. Ludolph. You have my secret ; let it not be breathed. Sigifred. Still give me leave to wonder that the Prince Ludolph and the swift Arab are the same ; Still to rejoice that 't was a German arm Death doing in a turban'd masquerade. Ludolph. The emperor must not know it, Sigifred. Sigifred. I pr'ythee, why? What happier hour of time Could thy pleased star point down upon from hea- ven With silver index, bidding thee make peace ? Ludolph. Still it must not be known, good Sigi- fred ; lo The star may point oblique. Sigifred. If Otho knew His son to be that unknown Mussulman, After whose spurring heels he sent me forth, With one of. his well-pleased Olympian oaths, The charters of man's greatness, at this hour He would be watching round the castle walls. And, like an anxious warder, strain his sight For the first glimpse of such a son return'd — Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians, That Saracenic meteor of the fight, 20 That silent fury, whose fell scimitar Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head, And left him space for wonder. Ludolph. Say no more. Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim. But as a son. The bronzed centurion, Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high deeds SCENE III OTHO THE GREAT 289 Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, Known only to his troop, hath greater plea Of favour with my sire than I can have. Sigifred. My lord, forgive me that I cannot see How this proud temper with clear reason squares. 31 What made you then, with such an anxious love. Hover around that life, whose bitter days You vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium. Or the mad-fumed wine ? Nay, do not frown, I rather would grieve with you than upbraid. Ludolph. I do believe you. No, 't was not to make A father his son's debtor, or to heal His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child. 'T was done in memory of my boyish days, 40 Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth, For all his calming of my childish griefs, And all his smiles upon my merriment. No, not a thousand foughten fields could sponge Those days paternal from my memory, Though now upon my head he heaps disgrace. Sigifred. My prince, you think too harshly — Ludolph. Can I so ? Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick ? And with a sullen rigour obstinate Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults ? 50 Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar, Driven me to the very edge o' the world, And almost put a price upon my head ? Sigifred. Remember how he spared the rebel lords. Ludolph. Yes, yes, I know he hath a noble nature That cannot trample on the fallen. But his Is not the only proud heart in his realm. He hath wrong'd me, and I have done him wrong ; He hath loved me, and I have shown him kindness ; We should be almost equal. Yet, for all this, 60 290 DRAMAS ACT I I would you had appear' d among those lords, And ta'en his favour. Ludolpli. Ha ! till now I thought My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour dear. What ! would you have me sue before his throne > And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk steps ? Or hug the golden housings of his steed, Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I dared But yesterday ? And, at the trumpet sound, Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag And lick the soiled grass ? No, no, my friend, 70 I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap. And bless indemnity with all that scum, — Those men I mean, who on my shoulders propp'd Their weak rebellion, winning me with lies, And pitying forsooth my many wrongs ; Poor self -deceived wretches, who must think Each one himself a king in embryo, Because some dozen vassals cried — my lord ! Cowards, who never knew their little hearts, Till flurried danger held the mirror up, 80 And then they own'd themselves without a blush, Curling, like spaniels, round my father's feet. Such things deserted me and are forgiven, While I, less guilty, am an outcast still. And will be, for I love such fair disgrace. Sifjifred. I know the clear truth ; so would Otho see. For he is just and noble. Fain would I Be pleader for you — LudolpJi. He '11 hear none of it ; You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate; Endanger not yourself so uselessly. 90 I will encounter his thwart spleen myself. To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he keeps His crowded state after the victory, There will I be, a most unwelcome guest, And parley with him, as a son should do, SCENE III OTHO THE GREAT 291 Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny ; Tell him how feeble is that tyranny ; How the relationship of father and son Is no more valid than a silken leash Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not 100 From interchanged love through many years. Aye, and those turreted Franconian walls, Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl — My fair Auranthe ! Yes, I will be there. Sigifred. Be not so rash ; wait till his wrath shall pass. Until his royal spirit softly ebbs Self -influenced ; then, in his morning dreams He will forgive thee, and awake in grief To have not thy good morrow. Ludolijh. Yes, to-day I must be there, while her young pulses beat no Among the new-plumed minions of the war. Have you seen her of late ? No ? Auranthe, Franconia's fair sister, 'tis I mean. She should be paler for my troublous days — And there it is — my father's iron lips Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my right. Sigifred (aside). Auranthe! I had hoped this whim had pass'd. Ludol2Jh. And, Sigifred, with all his love of justice. When will he take that grandchild in his arms, That, by my love I swear, shall soon be his ? 120 This reconcilement is impossible, For see — but who are these ? Sigifred. They are messengers From our great emperor ; to you, I doubt not, For couriers are abroad to seek you out. Enter Theodore and Gonfred. Theodore. Seeing so many vigilant eyes explore The province to invite your highness back To your high dignities, we are too happy. 292 DRAMAS ACT ii I Oonfred. We have eloquence to colour justly The emperor's anxious wishes. Ludolph. Go. I follow you. [Exeunt Theodore and Gonpred. I play the prude : it is but venturing — 130 Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my friend, Let us to Friedburg castle. ACT II Scene I. — An antechamber in the Castle Enter Ludolph and Sigipred. Ludolph. No more advices, no more cautioning ; I leave it all to fate — to any thing ! I cannot square my conduct to time, place, Or circumstance : to me 'tis all a mist ! Sigifred. I say no more. Imdolph. It seems I am to wait Here in the anteroom ; — that may be a trifle. You see now how I dance attendance here, Without that tyrant temper, you so blame. Snapping the rein. You have medicined me With good advices ; and I here remain, 10 In this most honourable anteroom. Your patient scholar. Sigifred. Do not wrong me. Prince. By Heavens, I 'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's slipper, When in the morning he doth yawn with pride. Than see you humbled but a half-degree ! Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss The Nobles ere he sees you. Enter Gonpred /r6>m the Council-room. Ludolph. Well, sir ! what ? Gonfred. Great honour to the Prince ! The Em- peror, SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 293 Hearing that his brave son had reappeared, Instant dismiss'd the Council from his sight, 20 As Jove fans off the clouds. Even now they pass. [Bxit. Enter the Nobles from the Council-room. They cross the Stage, howing with respect to Ludolph, lie frowning on them. Conrad follows. Exeunt Nobles. Ludolph. Not the discoloured poisons of a fen. Which he, who breathes, feels warning of his death, Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense, As these prodigious sycophants disgust The soul's fine palate. Conrad. Princely Ludolph, hail ! Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the realm ! Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden buds, That they, against the winter of thy sire. May burst, and swell, and flourish round thy brows, Maturing to a weighty diadem ! 31 Yet be that hour far off ; and may he live. Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth for rain. Set my life's star! I have lived long enough, Since under my glad roof, propitiously, Father and son each other re-possess. Ludolph. Fine wording, Duke ! but words could never yet Forestall the fates ; have you not learnt that yet ? Let me look well : your features are the same ; Your gait the same ; your hair of the same shade ; As one I knew some passed weeks ago, 41 Who sung far different notes into mine ears. I have mine own particular comments on 't ; You have your own, perhaps. Conrad. My gracious Prince, All men may err. In trutli I was deceived In your great father's nature, as you were. Had I known that of him I have since known. 294 DRAMAS act ii And what you soon will learn, I would have turn'd My sword to my own throat, rather than held Its threatening edge against a good King's quiet : 50 Or with one word fever'd you, gentle Prince, Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then went, Indeed too much oppress'd. May I he bold To tell the Emperor you will haste to him ? Ludolph. Your Dukedom's privilege will grant so much. YExit Conrad. He 's very close to Otho, a tight leech ! Your hand — I go ! Ha ! here the thunder comes Sullen against the wind ! If in two angry brows My safety lies, then Sigifred, I 'm safe. 59 Enter Otho and Conrad. Otho. Will you make Titan play the lackey -page To chattering pigmies ? I would have you know That such neglect of our high Majesty Annuls all feel of kindred. What is son, — Or friend — or brother — or all ties of blood, — When the whole kingdom, centred in ourself, Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ? By Peter's chair ! I have upon my tongue A word to fright the proudest spirit here ! — Death ! — and slow tortures to the hardy fool. Who dares take such large charter from our smiles ! Conrad, we would be private ! Sigifred ! 71 Off ! And none pass this way on pain of death ! [E.reunt Conrad and Sigifred. Ludolph. This was but half expected, my good sire. Yet I am grieved at it, to the full height, As though my hopes of favour had been whole. Otho. How you indulge yourself ! What can you hope for ? * Ludolph. Nothing, my liege, I have to hope for nothing. SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 295 I come to greet you as a loving son, And then depart, if I may be so free, Seeing tliat blood of yours in my warm veins 80 Has not yet mitigated into milk. OtJio. What would you, sir ? Ludolph. A lenient banishment ; So please you let me unmolested pass This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again. I want no more. A rebel wants no more. Otho. And shall I let a rebel loose again To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my head ? No, obstinate boy, you shall be kept caged up. Served with harsh food, with scum for Sunday- drink. Ludolph. Indeed ! Otho. And chains too heavy for your life : I'll choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous face 90 Shall be a hell to look upon, and she — Ludolph. Ha ! Otho. Shall be your fair Auranthe. Ludolph. Amaze ! Amaze ! Otho. To-day you marry her. Ludolph. This is a sharp jest ! Otho. No. None at all. When have I said a lie ? Ludolph. If I sleep not, I am a waking wretch, Otho. Not a word more. Let me embrace my child. Ludolph. I dare not. 'T would pollute so good a father ! O heavy crime ! that your son's blinded eyes Could not see all his parent's love aright, 100 As now I see it. Be not kind to me — Punish me not with favour. Otho. Are you sure, Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ? Ludolph. My father, none ! Otho. Thjgn you astonish me. Ludolph. No, I have no plea. Disobedience, 296 DRAMAS ACT II Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy, Are all my counsellors. If they can make My crooked deeds show good and plausible, Then grant^me loving pardon, but not else, Good Gods ! not else, in any way, my liege ! Otho. You are a most perplexing noble boy. m Ludolph. You not less a perplexing noble father. Otho. Well, you shall have free passport through the gates. Farewell ! Ludolph. Farewell ! and by these tears believe, And still remember, I repent in pain All my misdeeds ! Otho. Ludolph, I will ! I will ! But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would inquire If you in all your wandering, ever met A certain Arab haunting in these parts. Ludolph. No, my good lord, I cannot say I did. Othx). Make not your father blind before his time ; 121 Nor let these arms paternal hunger more For an embrace, to dull the appetite Of my great love for thee, my supreme child ! Come close, and let me breathe into thine ear. I knew you through disguise. You are the Arab ! You can't deny it. {Embracing him, Ludolph. Happiest of days ! 0th/). We'll make it so. lAidolph. 'Stead of one fatted calf Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last. Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stunning mace Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast 131 Nobly as Nimrod's masons, when the towers Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clouds! Otho. Large as a God speak out, where all is thine. LAidolph. Ay, father, but the fire in my sad breast Is quench'd with inward tears ! I must rejoice i SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 297 For you, whose wings so shadow over me In tender victory, but for myself I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe mine 1 Too great a boon ! I pr'y thee let me ask 140 What more than I know of could so have changed Your purpose touching her. OtJio. At a word, this : In no deed did you give me more offence Than your rejection of Erminia. To my appalling, I saw too good proof Of your keen-eyed suspicion, — she is naught ! Ludolph. You are convinced ? Otlio. Ay, spite of her sweet looks, O, that my brother's daughter should so fall ! Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips Of soldiers in their cups. Ludolph. 'T is very sad. 150 Otho. No more of her. Auranthe — Ludolph, come ! This marriage be the bond of endless peace ! {^Exeunt. Scene II. — The entrance <7/"Gersa's Tent in the Hungarian Camp Enter Erminia. Erminia. Where ! where ! where shall I find a mes- senger ! A trusty soul ? A good man in the camp ? Shall I go myself? Monstrous wickedness ! O cursed Conrad ! devilish Auranthe ! Here is proof palpable as the bright sun ! O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears ! \81iout8 in the ca/mp. Enter an Hungarian Captain. Captain. Fair prisoner, you hear those joyous shouts ? 298 DRAMAS ACT II The king — aye, now our king, — but still your slave, Young Gersa, from a short captivity Has just return'd. He bids me say, bright dame, 10 That even the homage of his ranged chiefs Cures not his keen impatience to behold Such beauty once again. What ails you, lady ? Erminia. Say, is not that a German, yonder ? There ! Captain. Methinks by his stout bearing he should be — Yes — it is Albert ; a brave German knight. And much in the Emperor's favour. Erminia. I would fain Inquire of friends and kinsfolk ; how they fared In these rough times. Brave soldier, as you pass To royal Gersa with my humble thanks, 20 Will you send yonder knight to me 1 Captain. I will. \^Exit. Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be a man Frank, open, generous ; Albert I may trust. O proof ! proof ! proof ! Albert 's an honest man ; Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here, Would I hold more trustworthy. Now ! Enter Albert. Albert. Good Gods ! Lady Erminia ! are you prisoner In this beleaguer'd camp ? Or are you here Of your own will ? You pleased to send for me. By Venus, 't is a pity I knew not 30 Your plight before, and, by her Son, I swear To do you every service you can ask. What would the fairest — ? Ermina. Albert, will you swear ? Albert. I have. Well ? Erminia. Albert, you have fame to lose. If men, in court and camp, lie not outright, SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 299 You should be, from a thousand, chosen forth To do an honest deed. Shall I confide — ? Albert. Aye, any thing to me, fair creature. Do; Dictate my task. Sweet woman, — Erminia. Truce with that. You understand me not ; and, in your speech, 40 I see how far the slander is abroad. Without proof could you think me innocent ? Albert. Lady, I should rejoice to know you so. Erminia. If you have any pity for a maid, Suffering a daily death from evil tongues ; Any compassion for that Emperor's niece, Who, for your bright sword and clear honesty, Lifted you from the crowd of common men Into the lap of honour ; — save me, knight ! Albert. How ? Make it clear ; if it be possible, I by the banner of St. Maurice swear 51 To right you. Erminia. Possible ! — Easy. O my heart ! This letter's not so soil'd but you may read it ; — Possible ! There — that letter ! Kead — read it. [^Oives Mm a letter. Albert {reading). ' To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the threat you made at parting, and I will forget to send the Em- peror letters and papers of yours I have become pos- sessed of. His life is no trifle to me ; his death you shall find none to yourself.' (Speaks to himself.) 'Tis me — my life that's pleaded for! (Beads). ' He, for his own sake, will be dumb as the grave. Erminia has my shame fix'd upon her, sure as a wen. We are safe. Auranthe.' A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp ! Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon ! Where got you this ? Where ? When ? Erminia. I found it in the tent, among some spoils 300 DRAMAS act ii Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot. Come in, and see. \_They go in and return. Albert. Villainy ! Villainy ! Conrad's sword, his corselet, and his helm, 70 And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel — Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. Haste, haste away ! Albert. O, I am tortured by this villainy. Erminia. You needs must be. Carry it swift to Otho; Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood, Forced from their quiet cells, are parcel'd out For slaves among these Huns. Away ! Away ! Albert. I am gone. Erminia. Swift be your steed ! Within this hour The Emperor will see it. Albert. Ere I sleep : 80 That I can swear. {Hurries out. Gersa {without). Brave captains ! thanks. Enough Of loyal homage now ! Enter Gersa. Erminia. Hail, royal Hun ! Oersa. What means this, fair one ? Why in such alarm ? Who was it hurried by me so distract ? It seem'd you were in deep discourse together ; Your doctrine has not been so harsh to him As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be plain. I am no jealous fool to kill you both. Or, for such trifles, rob th' adorned world Of such a beauteous vestal. Erminia. I grieve, my Lord, 90 To hear you condescend to ribald-phrase. Gersa. This is too much ! Hearken, my lady pure ! Erminia. Silence! and hear the magic of a name — SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 301 Erminia ! I am she, — the Emperor's niece ! Praised be the Heavens, I now dare own myself ! Oersa. Erminia ! Indeed ! I 've heard of her. Pr'ythee, fair lady, what chance brought you here ? Erminia. Ask your own soldiers. Gersa. And you dare own your name. For loveliness you may — and for the rest My vein is not censorious. Erminia. Alas ! poor me ! 100 'T is false indeed. Oersa. Indeed you are too fair : The swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast, When to the stream she launches, looks not back With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings So white as your soul is, if that but be Twin picture to your face, Erminia ! To-day, for the first day, I am a king, Yet would I give my unworn crown away To know you spotless. Erminia. Trust me one day more, Generously, without more certain guarantee, no Than this poor face you deign to praise so much ; After that, say and do whate'er you please. If I have any knowledge of you, sir, I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve much To hear my story. O be gentle to me, For I am sick and faint with many wrongs. Tired out, and weary- worn with contumelies. Gersa. Poor lady ! Enter Ethelbekt. Erminia. Gentle Prince, 'tis false indeed. Good morrow, holy father ! I have had Your prayers, though I look'd for you in vain. 120 Ethelhert. Blessings upon you, daughter! Sure you look Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days. Young man, you heard this virgin say 't was false, — 302 DRAMAS act ii 'T is false, I say. What ! can you not employ Your temper elsewhere, 'mong those burly tents, But you must taunt this dove, for she hath lost The Eagle Otho to beat off assault ? Fie ! Fie ! But I will be her guard myself, r the Emperor's name. I here demand Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false ! 130 Gersa. Peace! peace, old man! I cannot think she is. Ethelbert. Whom I have known from her first in- fancy, Baptized her in the bosom of the Church, Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the grain, From the first shoot till the unripe mid-May, Then to the tender ear of her June days, Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid green, Is blighted by the touch of calumny ; You cannot credit such a monstrous tale. Gersa. I cannot. Take her. Fair Erminia, 140 I follow you to Friedburg, — is 't not so? Erminia. Ay, so we purpose. Ethelbert. Daughter, do you so ? How 's this ? I marvel ! Yet you look not mad. Erminia. I have good news to tell you, Ethelbert. Gersa. Ho ! ho, there ! Guards ! Your blessing, father ! Sweet Erminia, Believe me, I am well nigh sure — Erminia. Farewell. Short time will show. [Enter Chiefs. Yes, father Ethelbert, I have news precious as we pass along. 149 Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall guide me. Erminia. To no ill. Gersa. Command an escort to the Friedburg lines, [Exeunt Chiefs. Pray let me lead. Fair lady, forget not Gersa, how he believed you innocent. I follow you to Friedburg with all speed. [Exeunt. SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 303 ACT III Scene I. — The Country Enter Albert. Albert. O that the earth were empty, as when Cain Had no perplexity to hide his head ! Or that the sword of some brave enemy Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulf Of times past, unremember'd ! Better so Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, The white limbs of a wanton. This the end Of an aspiring life ! My boyhood past In feud with w^olves and bears, when no eye saw 10 The solitary warfare, fought for love Of honour 'mid the growling wilderness. My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword, Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring Of shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'd Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague. Was 't to this end I louted and became The menial of Mars, and held a spear Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind ? Is it for this, I now am lifted up 20 By Europe's throned Emperor, to see My honour be my executioner, — My love of fame, my prided honesty Put to the torture for confessional ? Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world A woman's secret ! — Though a fiend she be, Too tender of my ignominious life ; But then to wrong the generous Emperor In such a searching point, were to give up My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday ! 30 I must confess, — and cut my throat, — to-day ? To-morrow ? Ho ! some wine ! 304 DRAMAS act hi Enter Sigifred. Sigifred. A fine humour — Albert. Who goes there ? Count Sigifred ? Ha ! ha! Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky For a throng'd tavern, — and these stubbed trees For old serge hangings, — me, your humble friend, For a poor waiter ? Why, man, how you stare ! What gipsies have you been carousing with ? No, no more wine ; methinks you 've had enough. Albert. You well may laugh and banter. What a fool 40 An injury may make of a staid man ! You shall know all anon. Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ? Albert. 'T was with some people out of common reach ; Revenge is difficult. Sigifred. I am your friend ; We meet again to-day, and can confer Upon it. For the present I 'm in haste. Albert. Whither ? Sigifred. To fetch King Gersa to the feast. The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy ! The very porters, as I pass'd the doors, 50 Heard his loud laugh, and answer'd in full choir. I marvel, Albert, you delay so long From these bright revelries ; go, show yourself, You may be made a duke. Albert. K.j, very like : Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd upon ? Sigifred. For what ? Albert. The marriage. What else can I mean ? Sigifred. To-day. O, I forgot, you could not know ; The news is scarce a minute old with me. SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 305 Albert. Married to day ! To-day ! You did not say so ? Sigifred. Now, while I speak to you, their comely heads 60 Are bow'd before the mitre. Albert. O ! monstrous ! Sigifred. What is this ? Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell! We '11 meet upon our subject. Farewell, count ! [Exit. Sigifred. Is this clear-headed Albert ? He brain- turn' d ! 'T is as portentous as a meteor. [Exit. Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle Enter as from the Marriage, Otho, Ludolph, AuRANTHE, Conrad, Nobles, Knights, Ladies, etc. Music. Otho. Now Ludolph ! Now Auranthe Daugh- ter fair ! What can I find to grace your nuptial day More than my love, and these wide realms in fee ? Ludolph. I have too much. Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. Ludolph. Auranthe ! I have ! O, my bride, my love ! Not all the gaze upon us can restrain My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy face, From adoration, and my foolish tongue From uttering soft responses to the love I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth ! 10 Fair creature, bless me with a single word ! All mine ! Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord ; I swoon else. Ludolph. Soft beauty ! by to-morrow I should die, Wert thou not mine. [ Thei/ talk apart. 3o6 DRAMAS act hi Ist Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd him ! 1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for love phil- tres. 2d Lady. They hold the Emperor in admiration. OtJw. If ever king was happy, that am I ! What are the cities 'yond the Alps to me, The provinces about the Danube's mouth, The promise of fair sail beyond the Rhone ; 20 Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes, To these fair children, stars of a new age ? Unless perchance I might rejoice to win This little ball of earth, and chuck it them To play with ! Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. Ludolph. Let me not famish. Otho (to Conrad). Good Franconia, You heard what oath I sware, as the sun rose, That unless Heaven would send me back my son. My Arab, — no soft music should enrich The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's smack ; 30 Now all my empire, barter'd for one feast. Seems poverty. Conrad. Upon the neighbour- plain The heralds have prepared a royal lists ; Your knights, found war-proof in the bloody field, Speed to the game. Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ? Ludolph. My lord ! Otho. A tourney ? Conrad. Or, if 't please you best — Ludolph. I want no more ! Is^ Lady. He soars ! M Lady. Past all reason. Imdol^ph. Though heaven's choir Should in a vast circumference descend And sing for my delight, I 'd stop my ears ! 40 Though bright Apollo's car stood burning here, SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 307 And he put out an arm to bid me mount, His touch an immortality, not I ! This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe! Otho. This is a little painful ; just too much. Conrad, if he flames longer in this wise, I shall believe in wizard-woven loves And old romances ; but I '11 break the spell/ Ludolph ! Conrad. He '11 be calm, anon. Ludolph. You call'd ! Yes, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive me : 50 Not being quite recover'd from the stun Of your large bounties. A tourney, is it not ? [J. senet heard faintly. Conrad. The trumpets reach us. Ethelhert (^mthout). On your peril, sirs, Detain us! \8t Voice iwithoiit). Let not the abbot pass. 2