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O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;

       O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,

       But that ’tis ever startled by the leap

       Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting

       Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;

       Or by the moon lifting her silver rim

       Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim

       Coming into the blue with all her light.

       O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight

       Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;

       Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

       Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,

       Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,

       Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

       Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!

       Thee must I praise above all other glories

       That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

       For what has made the sage or poet write

       But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?

       In the calm grandeur of a sober line,

       We see the waving of the mountain pine;

       And when a tale is beautifully staid,

       We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:

       When it is moving on luxurious wings,

       The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:

       Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,

       And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;

       O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,

       And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;

       While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles

       Charms us at once away from all our troubles:

       So that we feel uplifted from the world,

       Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.

       So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went

       On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;

       What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips

       First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips

       They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,

       And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:

       The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder —

       The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder;

       Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,

       To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.

       So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,

       That we might look into a forest wide,

       To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades

       Coming with softest rustle through the trees;

       And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,

       Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:

       Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled

       Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.

       Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find,

       Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind

       Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,

       Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain.

      What first inspired a bard of old to sing

       Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?

       In some delicious ramble, he had found

       A little space, with boughs all woven round;

       And in the midst of all, a clearer pool

       Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,

       The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping

       Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

       And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,

       A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,

       Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,

       To woo its own sad image into nearness:

       Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;

       But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.

       So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,

       Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;

       Nor was it long ere he had told the tale

       Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

      Where had he been, from whose warm head outflew

       That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,

       That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

       Coming ever to bless

       The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

       Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

       From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

       And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

       Full in the speculation of the stars.

       Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

       Into some wond’rous region he had gone,

       To search for thee, divine Endymion!

      He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

       Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew

       Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;

       And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow

       A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,

       The incense went to her own starry dwelling.

       But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,

       Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,

       The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,

       Wept that such beauty should be desolate:

       So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,

       And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

      Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen

       Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!

       As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

       So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.

       O for three words of honey, that I might

       Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

      Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,

       Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,

       And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,

       Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

       The evening weather was so bright, and clear,

       That men of health were of unusual cheer;

       Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,

       Or young Apollo on the pedestal:

       And lovely women were as fair and warm,

       As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

       The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

       And

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