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bend

       Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne

       Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn;

       Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost;

       To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost

       Towards him a large eagle, ‘twixt whose wings, Without one impious word, himself he flings,

       Committed to the darkness and the gloom:

       Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,

       Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell

       Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,

       And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath’d,

       Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath’d

       So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem’d

       Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem’d

       With airs delicious. In the greenest nook The eagle landed him, and farewel took.

      It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown

       With golden moss. His every sense had grown

       Ethereal for pleasure; ‘bove his head

       Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread

       Was Hesperean; to his capable ears

       Silence was music from the holy spheres;

       A dewy luxury was in his eyes;

       The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs

       And stirr’d them faintly. Verdant cave and cell He wander’d through, oft wondering at such swell

       Of sudden exaltation: but, “Alas!

       Said he, “will all this gush of feeling pass

       Away in solitude? And must they wane,

       Like melodies upon a sandy plain,

       Without an echo? Then shall I be left

       So sad, so melancholy, so bereft!

       Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,

       My breath of life, where art thou? High above,

       Dancing before the morning gates of heaven? Or keeping watch among those starry seven,

       Old Atlas’ children? Art a maid of the waters,

       One of shell-winding Triton’s bright-hair’d daughters?

       Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian’s,

       Weaving a coronal of tender scions

       For very idleness? Where’er thou art,

       Methinks it now is at my will to start

       Into thine arms; to scare Aurora’s train,

       And snatch thee from the morning; o’er the main

       To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff

       Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves.

       No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives

       Its powerless self: I know this cannot be.

       O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee

       To her entrancements: hither sleep awhile!

       Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foil

       For some few hours the coming solitude.”

      Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued

       With power to dream deliciously; so wound Through a dim passage, searching till he found

       The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where

       He threw himself, and just into the air

       Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss!

       A naked waist: “Fair Cupid, whence is this?”

       A well-known voice sigh’d, “Sweetest, here am I!”

       At which soft ravishment, with doating cry

       They trembled to each other.–Helicon!

       O fountain’d hill! Old Homer’s Helicon!

       That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o’er These sorry pages; then the verse would soar

       And sing above this gentle pair, like lark

       Over his nested young: but all is dark

       Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount

       Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count

       Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll

       Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll

       Is in Apollo’s hand: our dazed eyes

       Have seen a new tinge in the western skies:

       The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, Although the sun of poesy is set,

       These lovers did embrace, and we must weep

       That there is no old power left to steep

       A quill immortal in their joyous tears.

       Long time in silence did their anxious fears

       Question that thus it was; long time they lay

       Fondling and kissing every doubt away;

       Long time ere soft caressing sobs began

       To mellow into words, and then there ran

       Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. “O known Unknown! from whom my being sips

       Such darling essence, wherefore may I not

       Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot

       Pillow my chin for ever? ever press

       These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess?

       Why not for ever and for ever feel

       That breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt steal

       Away from me again, indeed, indeed–

       Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed

       My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! Is–is it to be so? No! Who will dare

       To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will,

       Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still

       Let me entwine thee surer, surer–now

       How can we part? Elysium! who art thou?

       Who, that thou canst not be for ever here,

       Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere?

       Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace,

       By the most soft completion of thy face,

       Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties–

       These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,

       The passion”— “O lov’d Ida the divine!

       Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!

       His soul will ‘scape us–O felicity!

       How he does love me! His poor temples beat

       To the very tune of love–how sweet, sweet, sweet.

       Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;

       Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by

       In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell

       Its heavy pressure, and will press at least

       My lips to thine, that they may richly feast

       Until we taste the life of love again.

       What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain!

       I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive;

      

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