John Keats

1795 - 1821

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.