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to lie in cavern rude,

       Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune’s voice,

       And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!

       There blush’d no summer eve but I would steer

       My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd’s pipe come clear from aery steep,

       Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep:

       And never was a day of summer shine,

       But I beheld its birth upon the brine:

       For I would watch all night to see unfold

       Heaven’s gates, and Æthon snort his morning gold

       Wide o’er the swelling streams: and constantly

       At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,

       My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.

       The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate:

       They knew not whence this bounty, and elate

       Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.

      “Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach

       At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!

       Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began

       To feel distemper’d longings: to desire

       The utmost privilege that ocean’s sire

       Could grant in benediction: to be free

       Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit

       I plung’d for life or death. To interknit

       One’s senses with so dense a breathing stuff

       Might seem a work of pain; so not enough

       Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,

       And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt

       Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;

       Forgetful utterly of self-intent;

       Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.

       Then, like a new fledg’d bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,

       I tried in fear the pinions of my will.

       ’Twas freedom! and at once I visited

       The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed.

       No need to tell thee of them, for I see

       That thou hast been a witness–it must be–

       For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth,

       By the melancholy corners of that mouth.

       So I will in my story straightway pass

       To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair!

       Why did poor Glaucus ever–ever dare

       To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth!

       I lov’d her to the very white of truth,

       And she would not conceive it. Timid thing!

       She fled me swift as seabird on the wing,

       Round every isle, and point, and promontory,

       From where large Hercules wound up his story

       Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew

       The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear:

       Until ’twas too fierce agony to bear;

       And in that agony, across my grief

       It flash’d, that Circe might find some relief–

       Cruel enchantress! So above the water

       I rear’d my head, and look’d for Phœbus’ daughter.

       Ææa’s isle was wondering at the moon:–

       It seem’d to whirl around me, and a swoon

       Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.

      “When I awoke, ’twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees,

       Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees.

       How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre,

       And over it a sighing voice expire.

       It ceased–I caught light footsteps; and anon

       The fairest face that morn e’er look’d upon

       Push’d through a screen of roses. Starry Jove!

       With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove

       A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all

       The range of flower’d Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: “Ah! Art awake?

       O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid’s sake!

       I am so oppress’d with joy! Why, I have shed

       An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead;

       And now I find thee living, I will pour

       From these devoted eyes their silver store,

       Until exhausted of the latest drop,

       So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop

       Here, that I too may live: but if beyond

       Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme;

       If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream;

       If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute,

       Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit,

       O let me pluck it for thee.” Thus she link’d

       Her charming syllables, till indistinct

       Their music came to my o’er-sweeten’d soul;

       And then she hover’d over me, and stole

       So near, that if no nearer it had been

       This furrow’d visage thou hadst never seen. 450

      “Young man of Latmos! thus particular

       Am I, that thou may’st plainly see how far

       This fierce temptation went: and thou may’st not

       Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot?

      “Who could resist? Who in this universe?

       She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse

       My fine existence in a golden clime.

       She took me like a child of suckling time,

       And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn’d,

       The current of my former life was stemm’d, And to this arbitrary queen of sense

       I bow’d a tranced vassal: nor would thence

       Have mov’d, even though Amphion’s harp had woo’d

       Me back to Scylla o’er the billows rude.

       For as Apollo each eve doth devise

       A new appareling for western skies;

       So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour

       Shed balmy consciousness within that bower.

       And I was free of haunts umbrageous;

       Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler’d deer,

       And birds from coverts innermost and drear

       Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow–

      To me new born delights!

      “Now let me borrow,

      For moments few, a temperament

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