|
A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: | |
Its loveliness increases; it will never | |
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep | |
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep | |
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. | 5 |
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 oer-darkened ways | 10 |
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 | 15 |
With the green world they live in; and clear rills | |
That for themselves a cooling covert make | |
Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, | |
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: | |
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms | 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 heavens brink. | |
|
Nor do we merely feel these essences | 25 |
For one short hour; no, even as the trees | |
That whisper round a temple become soon | |
Dear as the temples 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 oercast, | |
They alway must be with us, or we die. | |
|
Therefore, tis with full happiness that I | |
Will trace the story of Endymion. | 35 |
The very music of the name has gone | |
Into my being, and each pleasant scene | |
Is growing fresh before me as the green | |
Of our own vallies: so I will begin | |
Now while I cannot hear the citys 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 | 45 |
Grows lush in juicy stalks, Ill smoothly steer | |
My little boat, for many quiet hours, | |
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. | |
Many and many a verse I hope to write, | |
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmd 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, | |
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, | 55 |
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 | 65 |
Into oer-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. | |
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, | |
Where no man went; and if from shepherds keep | |
A lamb strayed 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, twas believed ever, | |
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever | |
From the white flock, but passd unworried | 75 |
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, | |
Until it came to some unfooted plains | |
Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains | |
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, | |
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, | 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, | 85 |
Edgd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove | |
Would often beat its wings, and often too | |
A little cloud would move across the blue. | |
|
Full in the middle of this pleasantness | |
There stood a marble altar, with a tress | 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 twas the morn: Apollos upward fire | 95 |
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-wooing sun; | |
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run | |
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; | |
Mans voice was on the mountains; and the mass | |
Of natures lives and wonders pulsd tenfold, | 105 |
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; | 110 |
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry | |
Earnestly round as wishing to espy | |
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited | |
For many moments, ere their ears were sated | |
With a faint breath of music, which evn then | 115 |
Filld out its voice, and died away again. | |
Within a little space again it gave | |
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, | |
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking | |
Through copse-clad vallies,ere their death, oer-taking | 120 |
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. | |
|
And now, as deep into the wood as we | |
Might mark a lynxs eye, there glimmered light | |
Fair faces and a rush of garments white, | |
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last | 125 |
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, | 135 |
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; | |
Each having a white wicker over brimmd | |
With Aprils tender younglings: next, well trimmd, | |
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks | |
As may be read of in Arcadian books; | 140 |
Such as sat listening round Apollos pipe, | |
When the great deity, for earth too ripe, | |
Let his divinity oer-flowing die | |
In music, through the vales of Thessaly: | |
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground, | 145 |
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound | |
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, | |
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, | |
A venerable priest full soberly, | |
Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye | 150 |
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, | |
And after him his sacred vestments swept. | |
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, | |
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; | |
And in his left he held a basket full | 155 |
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: | |
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still | |
Than Ledas love, and cresses from the rill. | |
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, | |
Seemd like a poll of ivy in the teeth | 160 |
Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd | |
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud | |
Their share of the ditty. After them appeard, | |
Up-followed by a multitude that reard | |
Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, | 165 |
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar | |
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: | |
Who stood therein did seem of great renown | |
Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, | |
Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; | 170 |
And, for those simple times, his garments were | |
A chieftain kings: 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 seemd, | 175 |
To common lookers on, like one who dreamd | |
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 rangd, | 185 |
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changd | |
To sudden veneration: women meek | |
Beckond 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, | 195 |
Thus spake he: Men of Latmos! shepherd bands! | |
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: | |
Whether descended from beneath the rocks | |
That overtop your mountains; whether come | |
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb; | 200 |
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs | |
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze | |
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge | |
Nibble their fill at oceans very marge, | |
Whose mellow reeds are touchd with sounds forlorn | 205 |
By the dim echoes of old Tritons horn: | |
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare | |
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air; | |
And all ye gentle girls who foster up | |
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup | 210 |
Will put choice honey for a favoured youth: | |
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth | |
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. | |
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than | |
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains | 215 |
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains | |
Greend over Aprils 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 pourd | 220 |
His early song against yon breezy sky, | |
That spreads so clear oer our solemnity. | |
|
Thus ending, on the shrine he heapd a spire | |
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire; | |
Anon he staind the thick and spongy sod | 225 |
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. | |
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while | |
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile, | |
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright | |
Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light | 230 |
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang: | |
|
O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang | |
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth | |
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death | |
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; | 235 |
Who lovst 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 Syrinxdo thou now, | |
By thy loves milky brow! | |
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, | 245 |
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 ripend fruitage; yellow girted bees | |
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas | |
Their fairest-blossomd beans and poppied corn; | 255 |
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 completionsbe quickly near, | 260 |
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, | |
O forester divine! | |
|
Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies | |
For willing service; whether to surprise | |
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; | 265 |
Or upward ragged precipices flit | |
To save poor lambkins from the eagles maw; | |
Or by mysterious enticement draw | |
Bewildered 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 | 275 |
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, | 285 |
That come a swooning over hollow grounds, | |
And wither drearily on barren moors: | |
Dread opener of the mysterious doors | |
Leading to universal knowledgesee, | |
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, | 295 |
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, | |
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth | |
Gives it a touch ethereala new birth: | |
Be still a symbol of immensity; | |
A firmament reflected in a sea; | 300 |
An element filling the space between; | |
An unknownbut no more: we humbly screen | |
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, | |
And giving out a shout most heaven rending, | |
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, | 305 |
Upon thy Mount Lycean! | |
|
Even while they brought the burden to a close, | |
A shout from the whole multitude arose, | |
That lingered in the air like dying rolls | |
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals | 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 | 315 |
To tunes forgottenout of memory: | |
Fair creatures! whose young childrens children bred | |
Thermopylæ its heroesnot yet dead, | |
But in old marbles ever beautiful. | |
High genitors, unconscious did they cull | 320 |
Times sweet first-fruitsthey dancd to weariness, | |
And then in quiet circles did they press | |
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end | |
Of some strange history, potent to send | |
A young mind from its bodily tenement. | 325 |
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, | 335 |
Calld up a thousand thoughts to envelope | |
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee | |
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, | |
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young | |
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue | 340 |
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, | |
And very, very deadliness did nip | |
Her motherly cheeks. Arousd from this sad mood | |
By one, who at a distance loud hallood, | |
Uplifting his strong bow into the air, | 345 |
Many might after brighter visions stare: | |
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze | |
Tossing about on Neptunes restless ways, | |
Until, from the horizons vaulted side, | |
There shot a golden splendour far and wide, | 350 |
Spangling those million poutings of the brine | |
With quivering ore: twas even an awful shine | |
From the exaltation of Apollos bow; | |
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. | |
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, | 355 |
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring | |
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest | |
Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increasd | |
The silvery setting of their mortal star. | |
There they discoursd 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 suns purple couch; to emulate | 365 |
In ministring the potent rule of fate | |
With speed of fire-tailed exhalations; | |
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons | |
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these, | |
A world of other unguessd offices. | 370 |
Anon they wanderd, by divine converse, | |
Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse | |
Each one his own anticipated bliss. | |
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss | |
His quick gone love, among fair blossomd boughs, | 375 |
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows | |
Her lips with music for the welcoming. | |
Another wishd, 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 | 385 |
Their fellow huntsmen oer 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 shard their famishd scrips. Thus all out-told | |
Their fond imaginations,saving him | |
Whose eyelids curtaind up their jewels dim, | |
Endymion: yet hourly had he striven | 395 |
To hide the cankering venom, that had riven | |
His fainting recollections. Now indeed | |
His senses had swoond 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 maidens 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, | 405 |
Frozen in that old tale Arabian. | |
|
Who whispers him so pantingly and close? | |
Peona, his sweet sister: of all those, | |
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, | |
And breathd a sisters 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, | 415 |
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, | 425 |
And dipt again, with the young couples 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 summers silent fingering; | |
To whose cool bosom she was used to bring | |
Her playmates, with their needle broidery, | |
And minstrel memories of times gone by. | 435 |
|
So she was gently glad to see him laid | |
Under her favourite bowers 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 tannd harvesters rich armfuls took. | |
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: | |
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest | |
Peonas busy hand against his lips, | |
And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips | 445 |
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps | |
A patient watch over the stream that creeps | |
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid | |
Held her in peace: so that a whispering blade | |
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling | 450 |
Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling | |
Among seer leaves and twigs, might all be heard. | |
|
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, | |
That broodest oer the troubled sea of the mind | |
Till it is hushd and smooth! O unconfind | 455 |
Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key | |
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, | |
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, | |
Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves | |
And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world | 460 |
Of silvery enchantment!who, upfurld | |
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, | |
But renovates and lives?Thus, in the bower, | |
Endymion was calmd to life again. | |
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, | 465 |
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 | 475 |
That, any longer, I will pass my days | |
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise | |
My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more | |
Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: | |
Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll | 480 |
Around the breathed boar: again Ill poll | |
The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow: | |
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, | |
Again Ill linger in a sloping mead | |
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed | 485 |
Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet, | |
And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat | |
My soul to keep in its resolved course. | |
|
Hereat Peona, in their silver source, | |
Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, | 490 |
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came | |
A lively prelude, fashioning the way | |
In which her voice should wander. Twas a lay | |
More subtle cadenced, more forest wild | |
Than Dryopes lone lulling of her child; | 495 |
And nothing since has floated in the air | |
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare | |
Went, spiritual, through the damsels hand; | |
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spannd | |
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw | 500 |
Endymions spirit melt away and thaw | |
Before the deep intoxication. | |
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon | |
Her self-possessionswung the lute aside, | |
And earnestly said: Brother, tis vain to hide | 505 |
That thou dost know of things mysterious, | |
Immortal, starry; such alone could thus | |
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinnd in aught | |
Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught | |
A Paphian dove upon a message sent? | 510 |
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, | |
Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen | |
Her naked limbs among the alders green; | |
And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace | |
Something more high perplexing in thy face! | 515 |
|
Endymion lookd at her, and pressd her hand, | |
And said, Art thou so pale, who wast so bland | |
And merry in our meadows? How is this? | |
Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss! | |
Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change | 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 sighd for: with so deadly gasp | 525 |
No man eer 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 oer the edge of the world, | 530 |
Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurld | |
My spear aloft, as signal for the chace | |
I, who, for very sport of heart, would race | |
With my own steed from Araby; pluck down | |
A vulture from his towery perching; frown | 535 |
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, | 545 |
Had I been used to pass my weary eves; | |
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves | |
So dear a picture of his sovereign power, | |
And I could witness his most kingly hour, | |
When he doth lighten up the golden reins, | 550 |
And paces leisurely down amber plains | |
His snorting four. Now when his chariot last | |
Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, | |
There blossomd suddenly a magic bed | |
Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red: | 555 |
At which I wondered greatly, knowing well | |
That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; | |
And, sitting down close by, began to muse | |
What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, | |
In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; | 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. | 565 |
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 gulphd in a tumultuous swim: | |
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell | |
The enchantment that afterwards befel? | |
Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream | |
That never tongue, although it overteem | 575 |
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 appeard to open for my flight, | |
I became loth and fearful to alight | |
From such high soaring by a downward glance: | |
So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, | 585 |
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. | |
When, presently, the stars began to glide, | |
And faint away, before my eager view: | |
At which I sighd that I could not pursue, | |
And dropt my vision to the horizons verge; | 590 |
And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge | |
The loveliest moon, that ever silverd oer | |
A shell for Neptunes goblet: she did soar | |
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul | |
Commingling with her argent spheres did roll | 595 |
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 raisd | 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 lookd, and, O ye deities, | |
Who from Olympus watch our destinies! | 605 |
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 |
Notthy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun | |
Such follying before theeyet she had, | |
Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad; | |
And they were simply gordiand up and braided, | |
Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, | 615 |
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 veind, more soft, more whitely sweet | 625 |
Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose | |
From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows | |
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion; | |
Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million | |
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, | 630 |
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, | |
Handfuls of daisies.Endymion, how strange! | |
Dream within dream!She took an airy range, | |
And then, towards me, like a very maid, | |
Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid, | 635 |
And pressd me by the hand: Ah! twas too much; | |
Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, | |
Yet held my recollection, even as one | |
Who dives three fathoms where the waters run | |
Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, | 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, | 645 |
But lappd and lulld along the dangerous sky. | |
Soon, as it seemd, we left our journeying high, | |
And straightway into frightful eddies swoopd; | |
Such as ay muster where grey time has scoopd | |
Huge dens and caverns in a mountains side: | 650 |
There hollow sounds arousd me, and I sighd | |
To faint once more by looking on my bliss | |
I was distracted; madly did I kiss | |
The wooing arms which held me, and did give | |
My eyes at once to death: but twas to live, | 655 |
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 seemd | |
A second self, that each might be redeemd | |
And plunderd of its load of blessedness. | 660 |
Ah, desperate mortal! I evn dard 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 | 665 |
Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes | |
A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, | |
Loiterd 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 peepd,an Oread as I guessd. | |
|
Why did I dream that sleep oer-powerd 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 | 675 |
That needs must die, although its little beam | |
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream | |
Fell into nothinginto 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, | 685 |
With leaden looks: the solitary breeze | |
Blusterd, and slept, and its wild self did teaze | |
With wayward melancholy; and r thought, | |
Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought | |
Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus! | 690 |
Away I wanderdall 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 | |
Seemd sooty, and oer-spread with upturnd gills | 695 |
Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown | |
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown | |
Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird | |
Before my heedless footsteps stirrd, and stirrd | |
In little journeys, I beheld in it | 700 |
A disguisd demon, missioned to knit | |
My soul with under darkness; to entice | |
My stumblings down some monstrous precipice: | |
Therefore I eager followed, and did curse | |
The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, | 705 |
Rockd 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, | 715 |
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 crushd away the life | |
From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause, | 720 |
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 | 725 |
No higher bard than simple maidenhood, | |
Singing alone, and fearfully,how the blood | |
Left his young cheek; and how he used to stray | |
He knew not where; and how he would say, nay, | |
If any said twas love: and yet twas love; | 730 |
What could it be but love? How a ring-dove | |
Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path; | |
And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe, | |
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses; | |
And then the ballad of his sad life closes | 735 |
With sighs, and an alas!Endymion! | |
Be rather in the trumpets mouth,anon | |
Among the winds at largethat all may hearken! | |
Although, before the crystal heavens darken, | |
I watch and dote upon the silver lakes | 740 |
Picturd in western cloudiness, that takes | |
The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, | |
Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands | |
With horses prancing oer them, palaces | |
And towers of amethyst,would I so tease | 745 |
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 spiders shuttle, | |
Circled a million times within the space | |
Of a swallows nest-door, could delay a trace, | |
A tinting of its quality: how light | |
Must dreams themselves be; seeing theyre more slight | 755 |
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 |
Lookd up: a conflicting of shame and ruth | |
Was in his plaited brow: yet his eyelids | |
Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids | |
A little breeze to creep between the fans | |
Of careless butterflies: amid his pains | 765 |
He seemd 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 longd to slake | |
My thirst for the worlds praises: nothing base, | 770 |
No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace | |
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepard | |
Though now tis tatterd; leaving my bark bard | |
And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope | |
Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, | 775 |
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 alchemizd, and free of space. Behold | 780 |
The clear religion of heaven! Fold | |
A rose leaf round thy fingers taperness, | |
And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stress | |
Of musics kiss impregnates the free winds, | |
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds | 785 |
Eolian magic from their lucid wombs: | |
Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs; | |
Old ditties sigh above their fathers grave; | |
Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave | |
Round every spot where trod Apollos 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 | 795 |
Into a sort of oneness, and our state | |
Is like a floating spirits. 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 ever issues forth | |
A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, | 805 |
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 |
Mingle, and so become a part of it, | |
Nor with aught else can our souls interknit | |
So wingedly: when we combine therewith, | |
Lifes self is nourishd by its proper pith, | |
And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. | 815 |
Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, | |
That men, who might have towerd 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 loves elysium. | |
And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, | |
Than speak against this ardent listlessness: | 825 |
For I have ever thought that it might bless | |
The world with benefits unknowingly; | |
As does the nightingale, upperched high, | |
And cloisterd among cool and bunched leaves | |
She sings but to her love, nor eer conceives | 830 |
How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. | |
Just so may love, although tis understood | |
The mere commingling of passionate breath, | |
Produce more than our searching witnesseth: | |
What I know not: but who, of men, can tell | 835 |
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 | |
Mens being mortal, immortal; to shake | |
Ambition from their memories, and brim | 845 |
Their measure of content; what merest whim, | |
Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, | |
To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim | |
A love immortal, an immortal too. | |
Look not so wilderd; 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. No, no, Im sure, | |
My restless spirit never could endure | |
To brood so long upon one luxury, | 855 |
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy | |
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. | |
My sayings will the less obscured seem, | |
When I have told thee how my waking sight | |
Has made me scruple whether that same night | 860 |
Was passd 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, | 865 |
And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, | |
And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide | |
Past them, but he must brush on every side. | |
Some moulderd 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: | 875 |
Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits | |
In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, | |
When all above was faint with mid-day heat. | |
And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, | |
Id bubble up the water through a reed; | 880 |
So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships | |
Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, | |
With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be | |
Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, | |
When love-lorn hours had left me less a child, | 885 |
I sat contemplating the figures wild | |
Of oer-head clouds melting the mirror through. | |
Upon a day, while thus I watchd, by flew | |
A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; | |
So plainly characterd, 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, | 895 |
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, | 900 |
Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight, | |
Bathing my spirit in a new delight. | |
Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss | |
Alone preserved me from the drear abyss | |
Of death, for the fair form had gone again. | 905 |
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain | |
Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth | |
On the deers tender haunches: late, and loth, | |
Tis scard away by slow returning pleasure. | |
How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure | 910 |
Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, | |
By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! | |
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, | |
Than when I wanderd from the poppy hill: | |
And a whole age of lingering moments crept | 915 |
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 |
With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies | |
Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes | |
In pity of the shatterd infant buds, | |
That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, | |
My hunting cap, because I laughd and smild, | 925 |
Chatted with thee, and many days exild | |
All torment from my breast;twas even then, | |
Straying about, yet, coopd 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 bramble, | |
Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, | 935 |
Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave | |
The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, | |
Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock | |
Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, | |
Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread | 940 |
Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymphs home. | |
Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam? | |
Said I, low voicd: Ah whither! Tis the grot | |
Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, | |
Doth her resign; and where her tender hands | 945 |
She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: | |
Or tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, | |
And babbles thorough silence, till her wits | |
Are gone in tender madness, and anon, | |
Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone | 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 dyinglysend honey-whispers | 955 |
Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers | |
May sigh my love unto her pitying! | |
O charitable echo! hear, and sing | |
This ditty to her!tell herso I stayd | |
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 lippd, and then these accents came: | |
Endymion! the cave is secreter | 965 |
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 oppressd I hurried in.Ah! where | 970 |
Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? | |
Ill smile no more, Peona; nor will wed | |
Sorrow the way to death, but patiently | |
Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh; | |
And come instead demurest meditation, | 975 |
To occupy me wholly, and to fashion | |
My pilgrimage for the worlds dusky brink. | |
No more will I count over, link by link, | |
My chain of grief: no longer strive to find | |
A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind | 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 | |
Whereer I look: but yet, Ill say tis naught | 985 |
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 Peonas hand: | |
They stept into the boat, and launchd from land. | |
|
See Notes. |
|