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 doting cry They trembled to each other.-Helicon !
O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon ! That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er These sorry pages; then the verse would soar And sing above this gentle pair, like lark Over his nested young: but all is dark Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount Exhales in mists to heaven. Ay, 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
Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem'd With airs delicious. In the greenest nook The eagle landed him, and farewell took.
It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 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 doting cry
They trembled to each other.-Helicon !
O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon ! That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er These sorry pages; then the verse would soar And sing above this gentle pair, like lark Over his nested young: but all is dark Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount Exhales in mists to heaven. Ay, 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
And, of thine own will,
To pluck thee from me? 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 complexion of thy face, Those lips, O slippery blisses! twinkling eyes, And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties- These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,
"O loved 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 secresy, And I must blush in heaven. 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 veil'd-my crystalling dominion Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! But what is this to love? Oh! I could fly With thee into the ken of heavenly powers,
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