I could hear he loved

Some fair immortal, and that his embrace

Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace

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Of this in heaven: I have marked 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 guessed not so, the sunny beam

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu!

Here must we leave thee.’ – At these words up-flew

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The impatient doves, up-rose the floating car,

Up went the hum celestial. High afar

The Latmian saw them minish into naught;

And, when all were clear vanished, still he caught

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.

When all was darkened, with Aetnean throe

The earth closed – 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 passed,

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And he in loneliness: he felt assured

Of happy times, when all he had endured

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 turquoise floor,

Black polished porticoes of awful shade,

And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,

Leading afar past wild magnificence,

Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence

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Stretching across a void, then guiding o’er

Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,

Streams subterranean tease their granite beds;

Then heightened 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 enclose

His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round

Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound,

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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 changèd magic interlace:

Sometimes like delicatest lattices,

Covered with crystal vines; then weeping trees,

Moving about as in a gentle wind,

Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined,

Poured into shapes of curtained canopies,

Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries

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Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.

Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare;

And then the water, into stubborn streams

Collecting, mimicked the wrought oaken beams,

Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,

Of those dusk places in times far aloof

Cathedrals called. He bade a loth farewell

To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell,

And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,

Half seen through deepest gloom, and grisly gapes,

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Blackening on every side, and overhead

A vaulted dome like Heaven’s, far bespread

With starlight gems: ay, all so huge and strange,

The solitary felt a hurried change

Working within him into something dreary –

Vexed 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,

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Came mother Cybele! alone – alone –

In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown

About her majesty, and front death-pale,

With turrets crowned. Four manèd lions hale

The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothèd 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,

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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 crossed

Towards him a large eagle, ’twixt whose wings,

Without one impious word, himself he flings,

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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 interbreathed,

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seemed

Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teemed

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook

The eagle landed him, and farewell took.

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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 Hesperian; 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 stirred them faintly. Verdant cave and cell

He wandered through, oft wondering at such swell

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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,

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Old Atlas’ children? Art a maid of the waters,

One of shell-winding Triton’s bright-haired 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

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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

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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 sighed, ‘Sweetest, here am I!’

At which soft ravishment, with doting cry

They trembled to each other. – Helicon!

O fountained hill! Old Homer’s Helicon!

That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o’er

These sorry pages! Then the verse would soar

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And sing above this gentle pair, like lark

Over his nested young: but all is dark

Around thine agèd 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 dazèd 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,

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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

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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, delicious fair!

Is – is it to be so? No! Who will dare

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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 –

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These tenderest – and by the nectar-wine,

The passion –’ ‘O doved 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 trancèd dullness; speak, and let that spell

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell

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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

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Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy,

And I must blush in heaven. O that I

Had done ’t already; that the dreadful smiles

At my lost brightness, my impassioned wiles,

Had wanèd 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

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Too palpable before me – the sad look

Of Jove, Minerva’s start – no bosom shook

With awe of purity, no Cupid pinion

In reverence vailed, my crystalline 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 –

800

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 up-tying

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 –

Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,

An immortality of passion’s thine.

Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine

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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

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Thine honeyed tongue – lute-breathings, which I gasp

To have thee understand, now while I clasp

Thee thus, and weep for fondness – I am pained,

Endymion. Woe! woe! is grief contained

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?’ –

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife

Melted into a languor. He returned

Entrancèd vows and tears.

Ye who have yearned

With too much passion, will here stay and pity

For the mere sake of truth, as ’tis a ditty

830

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

840

Has it been ever sounding for those ears

Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers

Yon sentinel 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 engulfed in the eddying wind.

As much as here is penned doth always find

A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain.

Anon the strange voice is upon the wane –

850

And ’tis but echoed 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 guessed

How lone he was once more, and sadly pressed

His empty arms together, hung his head,

And most forlorn upon that widowed bed

860

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 passed away. No longer did he wage

A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars.

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

The lyre of his soul Aeolian-tuned

Forgot all violence, and but communed

With melancholy thought.