When these words reach’d him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
“Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden’d spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet
That I may worship them? No eyelids meet
To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes Redemption sparkles!–I am sad and lost.”
Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air,
Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear
A woman’s sigh alone and in distress?
See not her charms! Is Phœbe passionless?
Phœbe is fairer far–O gaze no more:–
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty’s store,
Behold her panting in the forest grass!
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass For tenderness the arms so idly lain
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain,
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
After some warm delight, that seems to perch
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond
Their upper lids?–Hist!
“O for Hermes’ wand,
To touch this flower into human shape!
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape
From his green prison, and here kneeling down Call me his queen, his second life’s fair crown!
Ah me, how I could love!–My soul doth melt
For the unhappy youth–Love! I have felt
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,
That but for tears my life had fled away!–
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
There is no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love: there’s not a sound, Melodious howsoever, can confound
The heavens and earth in one to such a death
As doth the voice of love: there’s not a breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
Of passion from the heart!”–
Upon a bough
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now
Thirst for another love: O impious,
That he can even dream upon it thus!– Thought he, “Why am I not as are the dead,
Since to a woe like this I have been led
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?
Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee
By Juno’s smile I turn not–no, no, no–
While the great waters are at ebb and flow.–
I have a triple soul! O fond pretence–
For both, for both my love is so immense,
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.”
And so he groan’d, as one by beauty slain. The lady’s heart beat quick, and he could see
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.
He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,
Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.
“Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I
Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity!
O pardon me, for I am full of grief–
Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith
I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith
Thou art my executioner, and I feel
Loving and hatred, misery and weal,
Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
And all my story that much passion slew me;
Do smile upon the evening of my days:
And, for my tortur’d brain begins to craze,
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.– Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.
Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament
Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern’d earth
Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst
To meet oblivion.”–As her heart would burst
The maiden sobb’d awhile, and then replied:
“Why must such desolation betide
As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks
Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,
Schooling its half-fledg’d little ones to brush
About the dewy forest, whisper tales?–
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails
Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt,
Methinks ’twould be a guilt–a very guilt–
Not to companion thee, and sigh away
The light–the dusk–the dark–till break of day!”
“Dear lady,” said Endymion, “’tis past:
I love thee! and my days can never last. That I may pass in patience still speak:
Let me have music dying, and I seek
No more delight–I bid adieu to all.
Didst thou not after other climates call,
And murmur about Indian streams?”–Then she,
Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,
For pity sang this roundelay —
“O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?– To give maiden blushes
To the white rose bushes?
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
“O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?–
To give the glow-worm light?
Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?
“O Sorrow, Why dost borrow
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?–
To give at evening pale