All torment from my breast ; 't was even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den
Of helpless discontent, hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance,
At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck In the middle of a brook, whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, 'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 'Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam ?' Said I, low voic'd: 'Ah, whither! 'T is the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign; and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyingly - send honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying!
O charitable echo! hear, and sing
This ditty to her! - tell her '
My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,
Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name
Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came :
'Endymion the cave is secreter
Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' At that oppress'd I hurried in. Ah! where Are those swift moments?
Whither are they fled?
I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find
A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind.
Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ;
What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 't is naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car."
This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.
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, - sighing,
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 chafing 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! 't is his old grief. For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks : Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water how It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; And, in the middle, there is softly pight 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, 't would 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?
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