Endymion

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 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, — weaning

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 chaffing 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! ’tis 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-leav’d rill.

Now he is sitting by a shady spring,

And elbow-deep with feverous fingering

Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree

Pavillions 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 reach’d 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, ‘twould 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?

It was a nymph uprisen to the breast

In the fountain’s pebbly margin, and she stood

‘Mong lillies, like the youngest of the brood.

To him her dripping hand she softly kist,

And anxiously began to plait and twist

Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: “Youth!

Too long, alas, hast thou starv’d 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,

Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,

Vermilion-tail’d, or finn’d with silvery gauze;

Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws

A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands

Tawny and gold, ooz’d slowly from far lands

By my diligent springs; my level lillies, 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.

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!

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 pour’d 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 bur

Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;

And, while beneath the evening’s sleepy frown

Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,

Thus breath’d 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 travelling, 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-head of doubt

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,

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

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

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,

Glance but one little beam of temper’d light

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might

And tyranny of love be somewhat scar’d!

Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar’d,

Would give a pang to jealous misery,

Worse than the torment’s self: but rather tie

Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out

...