And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.
He blows a bugle,–an ethereal band
Are visible above: the Seasons four,–
Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store
In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar,
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,
In swells unmitigated, still doth last
To sway their floating morris. “Whose is this?
Whose bugle?” he inquires: they smile–”O Dis!
Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know Its mistress’ lips? Not thou?–’Tis Dian’s: lo!
She rises crescented!” He looks, ’tis she,
His very goddess: goodbye earth, and sea,
And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;
Goodbye to all but love! Then doth he spring
Towards her, and awakes–and, strange, o’erhead,
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;
And Phœbe bends towards him crescented. O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
Too well awake, he feels the panting side
Of his delicious lady. He who died
For soaring too audacious in the sun,
Where that same treacherous wax began to run,
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
To that fair shadow’d passion puls’d its way–
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, He could not help but kiss her: then he grew
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save
Young Phœbe’s, golden hair’d; and so ‘gan crave
Forgiveness: yet he turn’d once more to look
At the sweet sleeper,–all his soul was shook,–
She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more
He could not help but kiss her and adore.
At this the shadow wept, melting away.
The Latmian started up: “Bright goddess, stay!
Search my most hidden breast! By truth’s own tongue,
I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung To desperation? Is there nought for me,
Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?”
These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses:
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses
With ‘haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath.
“Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe
This murky phantasm! thou contented seem’st
Pillow’d in lovely idleness, nor dream’st
What horrors may discomfort thee and me. Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery!–
Yet did she merely weep–her gentle soul
Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole
In tenderness, would I were whole in love!
Can I prize thee, fair maid, till price above,
Even when I feel as true as innocence?
I do, I do.–What is this soul then? Whence
Came it? It does not seem my own, and I
Have no self-passion or identity.
Some fearful end must be: where, where is it? By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit
Alone about the dark–Forgive me, sweet:
Shall we away?” He rous’d the steeds: they beat
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,
Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.
The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange– Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,
So witless of their doom, that verily
’Tis well nigh past man’s search their hearts to see;
Whether they wept, or laugh’d, or griev’d, or toy’d–
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy’d.
Fell facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,
The moon put forth a little diamond peak,
No bigger than an unobserved star, Or tiny point of fairy scymetar;
Bright signal that she only stoop’d to tie
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
She bow’d into the heavens her timid head.
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,
While to his lady meek the Carian turn’d,
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern’d
This beauty in its birth–Despair! despair!
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz’d her wrist;
It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss’d, And, horror! kiss’d his own–he was alone.
Her steed a little higher soar’d, and then
Dropt hawkwise to the earth.
There lies a den,
Beyond the seeming confines of the space
Made for the soul to wander in and trace
Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart:
And in these regions many a venom’d dart
At random flies; they are the proper home
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear
No sound so loud as when on curtain’d bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.
Just when the sufferer begins to burn,
Then it is free to him; and from an urn,
Still fed by melting ice,