Behold

The clear religion of heaven! Fold

A rose leaf round thy finger’s taperness,

And soothe thy lips; hist, when the airy stress

Of music’s kiss impregnates the free winds,

And with a sympathetic touch unbinds

Aeolian magic from their lucid wombs:

Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;

Old ditties sigh above their father’s grave;

Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave

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Round every spot where trod Apollo’s foot;

Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,

Where long ago a giant battle was;

And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass

In every place where infant Orpheus slept.

Feel we these things? – that moment have we stepped

Into a sort of oneness, and our state

Is like a floating spirit’s. But there are

Richer entanglements, enthralments far

More self-destroying, leading, by degrees,

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To the chief intensity: the crown of these

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high

Upon the forehead of humanity.

All its more ponderous and bulky worth

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth

A steady splendour; but at the tip-top,

There hangs by unseen film, an orbèd drop

Of light, and that is love: its influence,

Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,

At which we start and fret; till in the end,

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Melting into its radiance, we blend,

Mingle, and so become a part of it –

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit

So wingedly. When we combine therewith,

Life’s self is nourished by its proper pith,

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.

Ay, so delicious is the unsating food,

That men, who might have towered in the van

Of all the congregated world, to fan

And winnow from the coming step of time

820

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry,

Have been content to let occasion die,

Whilst they did sleep in love’s elysium.

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,

Than speak against this ardent listlessness:

For I have ever thought that it might bless

The world with benefits unknowingly,

As does the nightingale, up-perchèd high,

And cloistered among cool and bunchèd leaves –

830

She sings but to her love, nor e’er conceives

How tip-toe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.

Just so may love, although ’tis understood

The mere commingling of passionate breath,

Produce more than our searching witnesseth –

What I know not: but who, of men, can tell

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell

To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,

The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,

The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,

840

The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,

Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,

If human souls did never kiss and greet?

‘Now, if this earthly love has power to make

Men’s being mortal, immortal; to shake

Ambition from their memories, and brim

Their measure of content; what merest whim,

Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,

To one, who keeps within his steadfast aim

A love immortal, an immortal too.

850

Look not so wildered; for these things are true,

And never can be born of atomies

That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,

Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I’m sure,

My restless spirit never could endure

To brood so long upon one luxury,

Unless it did, though fearfully, espy

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

My sayings will the less obscurèd seem,

When I have told thee how my waking sight

860

Has made me scruple whether that same night

Was passed in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona!

Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,

Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,

Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows

Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart

And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,

And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide

Past them, but he must brush on every side.

Some mouldered steps lead into this cool cell,

870

Far as the slabbèd margin of a well,

Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye

Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky.

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set

Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet

Edges them round, and they have golden pits:

’Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits

In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,

When all above was faint with midday heat.

And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,

880

I’d bubble up the water through a reed;

So reaching back to boyhood; make me ships

Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,

With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be

Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily,

When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,

I sat contemplating the figures wild

Of o’er-head clouds melting the mirror through.

Upon a day, while thus I watched, by flew

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver,

890

So plainly charactered, no breeze would shiver

The happy chance: so happy, I was fain

To follow it upon the open plain,

And, therefore, was just going, when, behold!

A wonder, fair as any I have told –

The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,

Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap

Through the cool depth. – It moved as if to flee –

I started up – when lo! refreshfully,

There came upon my face in plenteous showers,

900

Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,

Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,

Bathing my spirit in a new delight.

Ay, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss

Alone preserved me from the drear abyss

Of death, for the fair form had gone again.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth

On the deer’s tender haunches: late, and loth,

’Tis scared away by slow returning pleasure.

910

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure

Of weary days, made deeper exquisite,

By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!

Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,

Than when I wandered from the poppy hill:

And a whole age of lingering moments crept

Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept

Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.

Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;

Once more been tortured with renewèd life.

920

When last the wintry gusts gave over strife

With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies

Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes

In pity of the shattered infant buds –

That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,

My hunting cap, because I laughed and smiled,

Chatted with thee, and many days exiled

All torment from my breast – ’twas even then,

Straying about, yet, cooped up in the den

Of helpless discontent, hurling my lance

930

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,

940

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 voiced: “Ah, whither! ’Tis 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,

950

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 – ” So I stayed

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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 lipped, 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.”

970

At that oppressed 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

980

A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind

Blustering about my ears. Ay, 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 ’tis 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.’

990

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star

Through autumn mists, and took Peona’s hand:

They stepped into the boat, and launched from land.

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 passèd 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,

10

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-timbered boats there be

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified

20

To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,

And golden keeled, is left unlaunched and dry.

But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly

About the great Athenian admiral’s mast?

What care, though striding Alexander passed

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,

30

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

40

Than to be crushed in striving to uprear

Love’s standard on the battlements of song.

So once more days and nights aid me along,

Like legioned 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 mossèd oaks,

50

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 up-bursting 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;

60

And, in the middle, there is softly pight

A golden butterfly, upon whose wings

There must be surely charactered strange things,

For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

Lightly this little herald flew aloft,

Followed by glad Endymion’s clasped hands:

Onward it flies. From languor’s sullen bands

His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies

Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.

It seemed he flew, the way so easy was;

70

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

80

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 poured

Unto the temperate air: then high it soared,

And, downward, suddenly began to dip,

As if, athirst with so much toil, ’twould sip

The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch

90

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! Bewilderèd,

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 disturbed his gloomy rest?

It was a nymph uprisen to the breast

In the fountain’s pebbly margin, and she stood

100

‘Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.

To him her dripping hand she softly kissed,

And anxiously began to plait and twist

Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: ‘Youth!

Too long, alas, hast thou starved 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,

110

Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,

Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze;

Yea, or my veinèd pebble-floor, that draws

A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands

Tawny and gold, oozed 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.

120

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 canst 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. Farewell!

130

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 poured 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;

140

And, while beneath the evening’s sleepy frown

Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,

Thus breathed 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 travailing, 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

150

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 still the air, the subtle food,

To make us feel existence, and to show

How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,

160

Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,

There is no depth to strike in. I can see

Naught 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

170

Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,

Glance but one little beam of tempered light

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might

And tyranny of love be somewhat scared!

Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared,

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

180

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow

Not to have dipped 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

190

Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,

How lithe! When this thy chariot attains

Its airy goal, haply some bower veils

Those twilight eyes? Those eyes! – my spirit fails

Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air

Will gulf me – help!’ At this with maddened stare

And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood;

Like old Deucalion mountained o’er the flood,

Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.

And, but from the deep cavern there was borne

200

A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;

Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passioned moan

Had more been heard.