Complete Poems Read Online

His wandering steps, and half-entrancèd laid

His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,

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To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,

Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes’ tails.

And so he kept, until the rosy veils

Mantling the east by Aurora’s peering hand

Were lifted from the water’s breast, and fanned

Into sweet air and sobered morning came

Meekly through billows – when like taper-flame

Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,

He rose in silence, and once more ’gan fare

Along his fated way.

Far had he roamed,

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With nothing save the hollow vast, that foamed,

Above, around, and at his feet – save things

More dead than Morpheus’ imaginings:

Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large

Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe;

Rudders that for a hundred years had lost

The sway of human hand; gold vase embossed

With long-forgotten story, and wherein

No reveller had ever dipped a chin

But those of Saturn’s vintage; mouldering scrolls,

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Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls

Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude

In ponderous stone, developing the mood

Of ancient Nox; – then skeletons of man,

Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,

And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw

Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe

These secrets struck into him– and unless

Dian had chased away that heaviness,

He might have died: but now, with cheerèd feel,

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He onward kept, wooing these thoughts to steal

About the labyrinth in his soul of love.

What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move

My heart so potently? When yet a child

I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled.

Thou seemedst my sister: hand in hand we went

From eve to morn across the firmament.

No apples would I gather from the tree,

Till thou hadst cooled their cheeks deliciously;

No tumbling water ever spake romance,

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But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance;

No woods were green enough, no bower divine,

Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine;

In sowing time ne’er would I dibble take,

Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;

And, in the summer-tide of blossoming,

No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing

And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.

No melody was like a passing sprite

If it went not to solemnize thy reign.

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Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain

By thee were fashioned to the self-same end,

And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend

With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen –

Thou wast the mountain-top – the sage’s pen –

The poet’s harp – the voice of friends – the sun.

Thou wast the river – thou wast glory won.

Thou wast my clarion’s blast – thou wast my steed –

My goblet full of wine – my topmost deed.

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!

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O what a wild and harmonized tune

My spirit struck from all the beautiful!

On some bright essence could I lean, and lull

Myself to immortality: I pressed

Nature’s soft pillow in a wakeful rest.

But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss –

My strange love came – Felicity’s abyss!

She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away –

Yet not entirely. No, thy starry sway

Has been an under-passion to this hour.

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Now I begin to feel thine orby power

Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind,

Keep back thine influence, and do not blind

My sovereign vision. – Dearest love, forgive

That I can think away from thee and live! –

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!

How far beyond!’ At this a surprised start

Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;

For as he lifted up his eyes to swear

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How his own goddess was past all things fair,

He saw far in the concave green of the sea

An old man sitting calm and peacefully.

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,

And his white hair was awful, and a mat

Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,

A cloak of blue wrapped up his agèd bones,

O’erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans

Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form

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Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar,

Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted shore

Were emblemed in the woof; with every shape

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, ’twixt cape and cape.

The gulfing whale was like a dot in the spell.

Yet look upon it, and ’twould size and swell

To its huge self, and the minutest fish

Would pass the very hardest gazer’s wish,

And show his little eye’s anatomy.

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Then there was pictured the regality

Of Neptune, and the sea nymphs round his state,

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,

And in his lap a book, the which he conned

So steadfastly, that the new denizen

Had time to keep him in amazèd ken,

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

The old man raised his hoary head and saw

The wildered stranger – seeming not to see,

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His features were so lifeless. Suddenly

He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows

Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs

Furrowed deep wrinkles in his forehead large,

Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,

Till round his withered lips had gone a smile.

Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil

Had watched for years in forlorn hermitage,

Who had not from mid-life to utmost age

Eased in one accent his o’er-burdened soul,

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Even to the trees. He rose: he grasped his stole,

With convulsed clenches waving it abroad,

And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed

Echo into oblivion, he said:

‘Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head

In peace upon my watery pillow: now

Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.

O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!

O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and stung

With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,

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When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? –

I’ll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen

Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;

Anon upon that giant’s arm I’ll be,

That writhes about the roots of Sicily;

To northern seas I’ll in a twinkling sail,

And mount upon the snortings of a whale

To some black cloud; thence down I’ll madly sweep

On forkèd lightning, to the deepest deep,

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurled

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With rapture to the other side of the world!

O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,

I bow full hearted to your old decree!

Yes, every god be thanked, and power benign,

For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.

Thou art the man!’ Endymion started back

Dismayed; and, like a wretch from whom the rack

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,

Muttered: ‘What lonely death am I to die

In this cold region? Will he let me freeze,

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And float my brittle limbs o’er polar seas?

Or will he touch me with his searing hand,

And leave a black memorial on the sand?

Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,

And keep me as a chosen food to draw

His magian fish through hated fire and flame?

O misery of hell! resistless, tame,

Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,

Until the gods through heaven’s blue look out! –

O Tartarus! but some few days agone

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Her soft arms were entwining me, and on

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves:

Her lips were all my own, and – ah, ripe sheaves

Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,

But never may be garnered. I must stoop

My head, and kiss death’s foot. Love! love, farewell!

Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell

Would melt at thy sweet breath. – By Dian’s hind

Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind

I see thy streaming hair! And now, by Pan,

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I care not for this old mysterious man!’

He spake, and walking to that agèd form,

Looked high defiance. Lo! his heart ’gan warm

With pity, for the grey-haired creature wept.

Had he then wronged a heart where sorrow kept?

Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought

Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to humane thought,

Convulsion to a mouth of many years?

He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.

The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt

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Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt

About his large dark locks, and faltering spake:

‘Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus’ sake!

I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel

A very brother’s yearning for thee steal

Into mine own. For why? Thou openest

The prison gates that have so long oppressed

My weary watching. Though thou know’st it not,

Thou art commissioned to this fated spot

For great enfranchisement. O weep no more;

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I am a friend to love, to loves of yore.

Ay, hadst thou never loved an unknown power,

I had been grieving at this joyous hour.

But even now most miserable old,

I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold

Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case

Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays

As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid,

For thou shalt hear this secret all displayed,

Now as we speed towards our joyous task.’

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So saying, this young soul in age’s mask

Went forward with the Carian side by side:

Resuming quickly thus, while ocean’s tide

Hung swollen at their backs, and jewelled sands

Took silently their foot-prints:

‘My soul stands

Now past the midway from mortality,

And so I can prepare without a sigh

To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain.

I was a fisher once, upon this main,

And my boat danced in every creek and bay.

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Rough billows were my home by night and day –

The sea-gulls not more constant – for I had

No housing from the storm and tempests mad,

But hollow rocks – and they were palaces

Of silent happiness, of slumbrous ease:

Long years of misery have told me so.

Ay, thus it was one thousand years ago.

One thousand years! – Is it then possible

To look so plainly through them? to dispel

A thousand years with backward glance sublime?

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To breathe away as ’twere all scummy slime

From off a crystal pool, to see its deep,

And one’s own image from the bottom peep?

Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall,

My long captivity and moanings all

Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum,

The which I breathe away, and thronging come

Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures.

‘I touched no lute, I sang not, trod no measures:

I was a lonely youth on desert shores.

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My sports were lonely, ’mid continuous roars,

And craggy isles, and sea-mew’s plaintive cry

Plaining discrepant between sea and sky.

Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen

Would let me feel their scales of gold and green,

Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,

When a dread waterspout had reared aloft

Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready-ripe

To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe

My life away like a vast sponge of fate,

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Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state,

Has dived to its foundations, gulfed it down,

And left me tossing safely. But the crown

Of all my life was utmost quietude:

More did I love to lie in cavern rude,

Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune’s voice,

And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!

There blushed no summer eve but I would steer

My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear

The shepherd’s pipe come clear from aery steep,

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Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep:

And never was a day of summer shine,

But I beheld its birth upon the brine,

For I would watch all night to see unfold

Heaven’s gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold

Wide o’er the swelling streams: and constantly

At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,

My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.

The poor folk of the sea-country I blessed

With daily boon of fish most delicate:

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They knew not whence this bounty, and elate

Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.

‘Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach

At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!

Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began

To feel distempered longings: to desire

The utmost privilege that ocean’s sire

Could grant in benediction – to be free

Of all his kingdom. Long in misery

I wasted, ere in one extremest fit

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I plunged for life or death. To interknit

One’s senses with so dense a breathing stuff

Might seem a work of pain; so not enough

Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,

And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt

Whole days and days in sheer astonishment,

Forgetful utterly of self-intent,

Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.

Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth show

His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,

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I tried in fear the pinions of my will.

’Twas freedom! and at once I visited

The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed.

No need to tell thee of them, for I see

That thou hast been a witness – it must be –

For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth,

By the melancholy corners of that mouth.

So I will in my story straightway pass

To more immediate matter. Woe, alas!

That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair!

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Why did poor Glaucus ever, ever dare

To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth!

I loved her to the very white of truth,

And she would not conceive it. Timid thing!

She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing,

Round every isle, and point, and promontory,

From where large Hercules wound up his story

Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew

The more, the more I saw her dainty hue

Gleam delicately through the azure clear,

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Until ’twas too fierce agony to bear;

And in that agony, across my grief

It flashed, that Circe might find some relief –

Cruel enchantress! So above the water

I reared my head, and looked for Phoebus’ daughter.

Aeaea’s isle was wondering at the moon: –

It seemed to whirl around me, and a swoon

Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.

‘When I awoke, ’twas in a twilight bower;

Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees,

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Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees.

How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre,

And over it a sighing voice expire.

It ceased – I caught light footsteps; and anon

The fairest face that morn e’er looked upon

Pushed through a screen of roses. Starry Jove!

With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove

A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all

The range of flowered Elysium. Thus did fall

The dew of her rich speech: “Ah! Art awake?

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O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid’s sake!

I am so oppressed with joy! Why, I have shed

An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold-dead.

And now I find thee living, I will pour

From these devoted eyes their silver store,

Until exhausted of the latest drop,

So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop

Here, that I too may live: but if beyond

Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme;

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If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream;

If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute,

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit,

O let me pluck it for thee.” Thus she linked

Her charming syllables, till indistinct

Their music came to my o’er-sweetened soul;

And then she hovered over me, and stole

So near, that if no nearer it had been

This furrowed visage thou hadst never seen.

‘Young man of Latmos! thus particular

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Am I, that thou mayst plainly see how far

This fierce temptation went: and thou mayst not

Exclaim, “How then, was Scylla quite forgot?”

‘Who could resist? Who in this universe?

She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse

My fine existence in a golden clime.

She took me like a child of suckling time,

And cradled me in roses. Thus condemned,

The current of my former life was stemmed,

And to this arbitrary queen of sense

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I bowed a trancèd vassal: nor would thence

Have moved, even though Amphion’s harp had wooed

Me back to Scylla o’er the billows rude.

For as Apollo each eve doth devise

A new apparelling for western skies,

So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour,

Shed balmy consciousness within that bower.

And I was free of haunts umbrageous;

Could wander in the mazy forest-house

Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antlered deer,

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And birds from coverts innermost and drear

Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow –

To me new born delights!

‘Now let me borrow,

For moments few, a temperament as stern

As Pluto’s sceptre, that my words not burn

These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell

How specious heaven was changed to real hell.

‘One morn she left me sleeping: half awake

I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake

My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts;

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But she was gone. Whereat the barbèd shafts

Of disappointment stuck in me so sore,

That out I ran and searched the forest o’er.

Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom

Damp awe assailed me; for there ’gan to boom

A sound of moan, an agony of sound,

Sepulchral from the distance all around.

Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled

That fierce complain to silence, while I stumbled

Down a precipitous path, as if impelled.

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I came to a dark valley. – Groanings swelled

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew,

The nearer I approached a flame’s gaunt blue,

That glared before me through a thorny brake.

This fire, like the eye of gordian snake,

Bewitched me towards, and I soon was near

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear:

In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene –

The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen,

Seated upon an up-torn forest root;

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And all around her shapes, wizard and brute,

Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting,

Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting!

O such deformities! Old Charon’s self,

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf,

And take a dream ’mong rushes Stygian,

It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan,

And tyrannizing was the lady’s look,

As over them a gnarlèd staff she shook.

Oft-times upon the sudden she laughed out,

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And from a basket emptied to the rout

Clusters of grapes, the which they ravened quick

And roared for more; with many a hungry lick

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow,

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe,

And emptied on’t a black dull-gurgling phial –

Groaned one and all, as if some piercing trial

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones.

She lifted up the charm: appealing groans

From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear

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In vain; remorseless as an infant’s bier

She whisked against their eyes the sooty oil.

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil,

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage,

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage;

Until their grievèd bodies ’gan to bloat

And puff from the tail’s end to stiflèd throat.

Then was appalling silence: then a sight

More wildering than all that hoarse affright;

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen,

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Went through the dismal air like one huge Python

Antagonizing Boreas – and so vanished.

Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banished

These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark,

With dancing and loud revelry – and went

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent.

Sighing an elephant appeared and bowed

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud

In human accent: “Potent goddess! chief

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Of pains resistless! make my being brief,

Or let me from this heavy prison fly –

Or give me to the air, or let me die!

I sue not for my happy crown again;

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;

I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife;

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys!

I will forget them; I will pass these joys;

Ask naught so heavenward, so too, too high:

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Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die,

Or be delivered from this cumbrous flesh,

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,

And merely given to the cold bleak air.

Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!”

‘That cursed magician’s name fell icy numb

Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come

Naked and sabre-like against my heart.

I saw a fury whetting a death-dart;

And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright,

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Fainted away in that dark lair of night.

Think, my deliverer, how desolate

My waking must have been! disgust, and hate,

And terrors manifold divided me

A spoil amongst them.