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Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!

       To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:

       Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,

       Alone they can drink up the morning rain:

       Though a descended Pleiad, will not one

       Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune

       Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?

       So sweetly to these ravish’d ears of mine

       Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade

       Thy memory will waste me to a shade: — For pity do not melt!”— “If I should stay,”

       Said Lamia, “here, upon this floor of clay,

       And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,

       What canst thou say or do of charm enough

       To dull the nice remembrance of my home?

       Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam

       Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, —

       Empty of immortality and bliss!

       Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know

       That finer spirits cannot breathe below In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,

       What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe

       My essence? What serener palaces,

       Where I may all my many senses please,

       And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?

       It cannot be — Adieu!” So said, she rose

       Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose

       The amorous promise of her lone complain,

       Swoon’d, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.

       The cruel lady, without any show Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,

       But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,

       With brighter eyes and slow amenity,

       Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh

       The life she had so tangled in her mesh:

       And as he from one trance was wakening

       Into another, she began to sing,

       Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,

       A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,

       While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting

       fires. 0 And then she whisper’d in such trembling tone,

       As those who, safe together met alone

       For the first time through many anguish’d days,

       Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise

       His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,

       For that she was a woman, and without

       Any more subtle fluid in her veins

       Than throbbing blood, and that the selfsame pains

       Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.

       And next she wonder’d how his eyes could miss Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,

       She dwelt but half retir’d, and there had led

       Days happy as the gold coin could invent

       Without the aid of love; yet in content

       Till she saw him, as once she pass’d him by,

       Where ‘gainst a column he leant thoughtfully

       At Venus’ temple porch, ‘mid baskets heap’d

       Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap’d

       Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before

       The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more, But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?

       Lycius from death awoke into amaze,

       To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;

       Then from amaze into delight he fell

       To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;

       And every word she spake entic’d him on

       To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.

       Let the mad poets say whate’er they please

       Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,

       There is not such a treat among them all, Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,

       As a real woman, lineal indeed

       From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.

       Thus gentle Lamia judg’d, and judg’d aright,

       That Lycius could not love in half a fright,

       So threw the goddess off, and won his heart

       More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,

       With no more awe than what her beauty gave,

       That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.

       Lycius to all made eloquent reply, Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;

       And last, pointing to Corinth, ask’d her sweet,

       If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.

       The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness

       Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease

       To a few paces; not at all surmised

       By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.

       They pass’d the city gates, he knew not how,

       So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

      As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, Throughout her palaces imperial,

       And all her populous streets and temples lewd,

       Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,

       To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.

       Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,

       Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,

       Companion’d or alone; while many a light

       Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,

       And threw their moving shadows on the walls,

       Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.

      Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,

       Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near

       With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,

       Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown:

       Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,

       Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,

       While hurried Lamia trembled: “Ah,” said he,

       “Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?

       Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?” — “I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “tell me who

       Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind

       His features: — Lycius! wherefore did you blind

       Yourself from his quick eyes?” Lycius replied,

       “’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide

       And good instructor; but tonight he seems

       The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.”

      While yet he spake they had

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