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Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,

       Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;

       Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;

       The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;

       And virgin’s bower, trailing airily;

       With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,

       Stood serene Cupids watching silently. One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings,

       Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;

       And, ever and anon, uprose to look

       At the youth’s slumber; while another took

       A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,

       And shook it on his hair; another flew

       In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise

       Rain’d violets upon his sleeping eyes.

      At these enchantments, and yet many more,

       The breathless Latmian wonder’d o’er and o’er; Until, impatient in embarrassment,

       He forthright pass’d, and lightly treading went

       To that same feather’d lyrist, who straightway,

       Smiling, thus whisper’d: “Though from upper day

       Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here

       Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer!

       For ’tis the nicest touch of human honour,

       When some ethereal and high-favouring donor

       Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;

       As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline

       Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,

       Alive with sparkles–never, I aver,

       Since Ariadne was a vintager,

       So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,

       Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears

       Were high about Pomona: here is cream,

       Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;

       Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm’d

       For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm’d By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums

       Ready to melt between an infant’s gums:

       And here is manna pick’d from Syrian trees,

       In starlight, by the three Hesperides.

       Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know

       Of all these things around us.” He did so,

       Still brooding o’er the cadence of his lyre;

       And thus: “I need not any hearing tire

       By telling how the sea-born goddess pin’d

       For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind Him all in all unto her doting self.

       Who would not be so prison’d? but, fond elf,

       He was content to let her amorous plea

       Faint through his careless arms; content to see

       An unseiz’d heaven dying at his feet;

       Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,

       When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,

       Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born

       Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes

       Were clos’d in sullen moisture, and quick sighs Came vex’d and pettish through her nostrils small.

       Hush! no exclaim–yet, justly mightst thou call

       Curses upon his head.–I was half glad,

       But my poor mistress went distract and mad,

       When the boar tusk’d him: so away she flew

       To Jove’s high throne, and by her plainings drew

       Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer’s beard;

       Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear’d

       Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he,

       That same Adonis, safe in the privacy Of this still region all his winter-sleep.

       Aye, sleep; for when our lovesick queen did weep

       Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower

       Heal’d up the wound, and, with a balmy power,

       Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:

       The which she fills with visions, and doth dress

       In all this quiet luxury; and hath set

       Us young immortals, without any let,

       To watch his slumber through. ’Tis well nigh pass’d,

       Even to a moment’s filling up, and fast She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through

       The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew

       Embower’d sports in Cytherea’s isle.

       Look! how those winged listeners all this while

       Stand anxious: see! behold!”–This clamant word

       Broke through the careful silence; for they heard

       A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter’d

       Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter’d,

       The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh

       Lay dormant, mov’d convuls’d and gradually Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum

       Of sudden voices, echoing, “Come! come!

       Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk’d

       Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk’d

       Full soothingly to every nested finch:

       Rise, Cupids! or we’ll give the bluebell pinch

       To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!”

       At this, from every side they hurried in,

       Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,

       And doubling over head their little fists In backward yawns. But all were soon alive:

       For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive

       In nectar’d clouds and curls through water fair,

       So from the arbour roof down swell’d an air

       Odorous and enlivening; making all

       To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call

       For their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed green

       Disparted, and far upward could be seen

       Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,

       Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,

       Spun off a drizzling dew,–which falling chill On soft Adonis’ shoulders, made him still

       Nestle and turn uneasily about.

       Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch’d out,

       And silken traces lighten’d in descent;

       And soon, returning from love’s banishment,

       Queen Venus leaning downward open arm’d:

       Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm’d

       A tumult to his heart, and a new life

       Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, But for her comforting! unhappy sight,

       But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write

       Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse

      

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