My hunting cap, because I laugh’d and smil’d,

       Chatted with thee, and many days exil’d

       All torment from my breast;–’twas even then,

       Straying about, yet, coop’d up in the den

       Of helpless discontent,–hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance,

       At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,

       And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck

       In the middle of a brook,–whose silver ramble

       Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,

       Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,

       Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave

       The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,–

       ‘Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock

       Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush scene of drooping weeds, and spread

       Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph’s home.

       “Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?”

       Said I, low voic’d: “Ah, whither! ’Tis the grot

       Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,

       Doth her resign; and where her tender hands

       She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:

       Or ’tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,

       And babbles thorough silence, till her wits

       Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone

       Of sadness. O that she would take my vows,

       And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,

       To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,

       Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,

       And weave them dyingly–send honey-whispers

       Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers

       May sigh my love unto her pitying!

       O charitable echo! hear, and sing

       This ditty to her!–tell her”–so I stay’d My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,

       Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,

       And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.

       Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name

       Most fondly lipp’d, and then these accents came:

       “Endymion! the cave is secreter

       Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir

       No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise

       Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys

       And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.” At that oppress’d I hurried in.–Ah! where

       Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled?

       I’ll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed

       Sorrow the way to death; but patiently

       Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;

       And come instead demurest meditation,

       To occupy me wholly, and to fashion

       My pilgrimage for the world’s dusky brink.

       No more will I count over, link by link,

       My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind

       Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,

       Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;

       What a calm round of hours shall make my days.

       There is a paly flame of hope that plays

       Where’er I look: but yet, I’ll say ’tis naught–

       And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,

       Already, a more healthy countenance?

       By this the sun is setting; we may chance

       Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.”

      This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star

       Through autumn mists, and took Peona’s hand:

       They stept into the boat, and launch’d from land.