Home  »  Poetical Works  »  33. Endymion

John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.

33. 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

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,

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

Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen,

Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den,

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 chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear

Than to be crush’d, in striving to uprear

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! ’tis 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

Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,

Hour after hour, to each lush-leav’d 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

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 loos’d, and eager, on he hies

Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.

It seem’d he flew, the way so easy was;

And like a new-born spirit did he pass

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

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 reached 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

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.

To him her dripping hand she softly kist,

And anxiously began to plait and twist

Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: “Youth!

Too long, alas, hast thou starv’d on the ruth,

The bitterness of love: too long indeed,

Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed

Thy 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,

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, ooz’d 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

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 cans’t 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. Farewel!

I have a ditty for my hollow cell.”

Hereat, she vanished 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

Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,

Thus breath’d he to himself: “Whoso encamps

To take a fancied city of delight,

O 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:

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 sill the air, the subtle food,

To make us feel existence, and to shew

How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,

Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,

There is no depth to strike in: I can see

Nought 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;

I’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

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 might

And tyranny of love be somewhat scar’d!

Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar’d,

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

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,

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 with 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,

How lithe! When this thy chariot attains

Is airy goal, haply some bower veils

Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!—my spirit fails—

Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air

Will gulph 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;

Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion’d moan

Had more been heard. Thus swell’d it forth: “Descend,

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

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!”

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 madness.

’Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;

Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite

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 antre; then the metal woof,

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

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: ’twas 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

Of any spirit to tell, but one of those

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,

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

Rous’d by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:

And long he travers’d to and fro, to acquaint

Himself with every mystery, and awe;

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 ceas’d 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-briar,

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,

Into the bosom of a hated thing.

What misery most drowningly doth sing

In lone Endymion’s ear, now he has caught

The goal of consciousness? Ah, ’tis the thought,

The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!

He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow

Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild

In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil’d,

The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,

Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest

Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;

But far from such companionship to wear

An unknown time, surcharg’d with grief, away,

Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,

Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?

“No!” exclaimed 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

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,

’Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste

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 exil’d mortal, sounds its pleasant name!

Within my breast there lives a choking flame—

O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!

A homeward fever parches up my tongue—

O let me slake it at the running springs!

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—

O 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,

Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers!—

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 ’twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill

To its old channel, or a swollen tide

To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,

And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns

Up heaping 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 heav’d anew

Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,

Down whose green back the short-liv’d foam, all hoar,

Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

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,

This sleepy music, forc’d him walk tiptoe:

For it came more softly than the east could blow

Arion’s magic to the Atlantic isles;

Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles

Of thron’d Apollo, could breathe back the lyre

To seas Ionian and Tyrian.

O did he ever live, that lonely man,

Who lov’d—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.

Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,

Is miserable. ’Twas 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

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, embowered high,

Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,

And more of beautiful and strange beside:

For on a silken couch of rosy pride,

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

Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;

But rather, giving them to the filled sight

Officiously. Sideway his face repos’d

On one white arm, and tenderly unclos’d,

By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth

To slumbery pout; just 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,

Together intertwin’d and trammel’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 bower, trailing airily;

With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,

Stood serene Cupids watching silently.

One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings,

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;

Until, impatient in embarrassment,

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 ’tis the nicest touch of human honour,

When some ethereal and high-favouring donor

Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;

As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence

Was I in no wise startled. So recline

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

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 pin’d

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind

Him all in all unto her doting self.

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 unseiz’d heaven dying at his feet;

Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,

When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,

Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born

Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes

Were clos’d in sullen moisture, and quick sighs

Came vex’d and pettish through her nostrils small.

Hush! no exclaim—yet, justly mightst 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.

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. ’Tis well nigh pass’d,

Even to a moment’s filling up, and fast

She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through

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 word

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, mov’d convuls’d and gradually

Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum

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’ll give the blue-bell pinch

To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!”

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:

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

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,

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

What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes

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

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 teaz’d

Me even to tears: thence, when a little eas’d,

Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood,

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 mov’d,

Yet mutter’d wildly. I could hear he lov’d

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,

And find it is the vainest thing to seek;

And that of all things ’tis 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.

’Tis a concealment needful in extreme;

And if I guess’d not so, the sunny beam

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu!

Here must we leave thee.”—At these words up flew

The impatient doves, up rose the floating car,

Up went the hum celestial. High afar

The Latmian saw them minish into nought;

And, when all were clear vanish’d, still he caught

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.

When all was darkened, with Etnean throe

The earth clos’d—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 assur’d

Of happy times, when all he had endur’d

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 porticos 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

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

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,

Cover’d with crystal vines; then weeping trees,

Moving about as in a gentle wind,

Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin’d,

Pour’d into shapes of curtain’d canopies,

Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries

Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.

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 farewel

To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell,

And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,

Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes,

Blackening on every side, and overhead

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—

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?

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 wayworn;

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:

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 interbreath’d,

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath’d

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem’d

Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem’d

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook

The eagle landed him, and farewel took.

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown

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!

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,

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,

One of shell-winding Triton’s bright-hair’d daughters?

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 sea-foamy cradle; or to doff

Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves.

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives

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 moment felt endued

With power to dream deliciously; so wound

Through a dim passage, searching till he found

The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where

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 doating 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

Over his nested young: but all is dark

Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount

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

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

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, my kindest fair!

Is—is it to be so? No! Who will dare

To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will,

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,

And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties—

These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,

The passion”————“O lov’d Ida the divine!

Endymion! dearest! 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 dulness; speak, and let that spell

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least

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,

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? ’Tis but to atone

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes:

Yet must I be a coward!—Horror rushes

Too palpable before me—the sad look

Of Jove—Minerva’s start—no bosom shook

With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion

In reverence veiled—my crystaline dominion

Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity!

But what is this to love? O I could fly

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—

O I do think that I 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,

I 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

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 honied tongue—lute-breathings, which I gasp

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 ’tis a ditty

Not of these days, but long ago ’twas told

By a cavern wind unto a forest old;

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

Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers

Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it

Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it:

For quenchless burnings come upon the heart,

Made fiercer by a fear lest any part

Should be engulphed 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 ’tis but echo’d from departing sound,

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:

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-voic’d war against the dooming stars.

No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars:

The lyre of his soul Eolian tun’d

Forgot all violence, and but commun’d

With melancholy thought: O he had swoon’d

Drunken from pleasure’s nipple; and his love

Henceforth was dove-like.—Loth was he to move

From the imprinted couch, and when he did,

’Twas 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’er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls,

And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls,

Of every shape and size, even to the bulk

In which whales arbour 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,

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 ’mong 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 flush’d

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,

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

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

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 poize

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,—

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

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,

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 raptur’d!—See how painfully I flow:

Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe.

Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead,

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead

Where all that beauty snar’d me.”—“Cruel god,

Desist! or my offended mistress’ nod

Will stagnate all thy fountains:—tease me not

With syren 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, ’twould be a deadly bane.”—

“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,

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave;

But ever since I heedlessly did lave

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow

Grew strong within me: wherefore serve me so,

And call it love? Alas, ’twas cruelty.

Not once more did I close my happy eyes

Amid the thrush’s song. Away! Avaunt!

O ’twas a cruel thing.”—“Now thou dost taunt

So softly, Arethusa, that I think

If thou wast playing on my shady brink,

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid!

Stifle thine heart no more;—nor be afraid

Of angry powers: there are deities

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs

’Tis 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 shew

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 honied wings: and thou shouldst please

Thyself to choose the richest, where we might

Be incense-pillow’d every summer night.

Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,

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,

Save echo, faint repeating o’er and o’er

The name of Arethusa. On the verge

Of that dark gulph 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.

He turn’d—there was a whelming sound—he stept,

There was a cooler light; and so he kept

Towards it by a sandy path, and lo!

More suddenly than doth a moment go,

The visions of the earth were gone and fled—

He saw the giant sea above his head.