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But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath

       Thy fragile bones to unknown burial.

       Adieu, sweet love, adieu!”–As shot stars fall,

       She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung

       And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung

       A war-song of defiance ‘gainst all hell.

       A hand was at my shoulder to compel

       My sullen steps; another ‘fore my eyes

       Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise

       Enforced, at the last by ocean’s foam I found me; by my fresh, my native home.

       Its tempering coolness, to my life akin,

       Came salutary as I waded in;

       And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave

       Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave

       Large froth before me, while there yet remain’d

       Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain’d.

      “Young lover, I must weep–such hellish spite

       With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might

       Proving upon this element, dismay’d, Upon a dead thing’s face my hand I laid;

       I look’d–’twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe!

       O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy?

       Could not thy harshest vengeance be content,

       But thou must nip this tender innocent

       Because I lov’d her?–Cold, O cold indeed

       Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed

       The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was

       I clung about her waist, nor ceas’d to pass

       Fleet as an arrow through unfathom’d brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline,

       Ribb’d and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl.

       Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl

       Gain’d its bright portal, enter’d, and behold!

       ’Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold;

       And all around–But wherefore this to thee

       Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see?–

       I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled.

       My fever’d parchings up, my scathing dread

       Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither’d, sapless, feeble, cramp’d, and lame.

      “Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space,

       Without one hope, without one faintest trace

       Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble

       Of colour’d phantasy; for I fear ’twould trouble

       Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell

       How a restoring chance came down to quell

      One half of the witch in me.

      “On a day,

      Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon’s brink

       A gallant vessel: soon she seem’d to sink

       Away from me again, as though her course

       Had been resum’d in spite of hindering force–

       So vanish’d: and not long, before arose

       Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose.

       Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen,

       But could not: therefore all the billows green

       Toss’d up the silver spume against the clouds.

       The tempest came: I saw that vessel’s shrouds In perilous bustle; while upon the deck

       Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck;

       The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls:

       I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls.

       O they had all been sav’d but crazed eld

       Annull’d my vigorous cravings: and thus quell’d

       And curb’d, think on’t, O Latmian! did I sit

       Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit

       Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone,

       By one and one, to pale oblivion; And I was gazing on the surges prone,

       With many a scalding tear and many a groan,

       When at my feet emerg’d an old man’s hand,

       Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand.

       I knelt with pain–reached out my hand–had grasp’d

       These treasures–touch’d the knuckles–they unclasp’d–

       I caught a finger: but the downward weight

       O’erpowered me–it sank. Then ‘gan abate

       The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst

       The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air

       Parted its dripping leaves with eager care.

       Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on

       My soul page after page, till well-nigh won

       Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied,

       I read these words, and read again, and tried

       My eyes against the heavens, and read again.

       O what a load of misery and pain

       Each Atlas-line bore off!–a shine of hope

       Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend!

       For thou hast brought their promise to an end.

      “In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch,

       Doom’d with enfeebled carcase to outstretch

       His loath’d existence through ten centuries,

       And then to die alone. Who can devise

       A total opposition? No one. So

       One million times ocean must ebb and flow,

       And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die,

       These things accomplish’d:–If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds

       The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds;

       If he explores all forms and substances

       Straight homeward to their symbol-essences;

       He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief,

       He must pursue this task of joy and grief

       Most piously;–all lovers tempest-tost,

       And in the savage overwhelming lost,

       He shall deposit side by side, until

       Time’s creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: Which done, and all these labours ripened,

       A youth, by heavenly power lov’d and led,

       Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct

       How to consummate all. The youth elect

       Must do the thing, or both will be destroy’d.”–

      “Then,” cried the young Endymion, overjoy’d,

       “We are twin brothers in this destiny!

       Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high

       Is, in this restless world,

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