---

Скачать книгу

---

About the crisped oaks full drearily,

       Yet with as sweet a softness as might be

       Remember’d from its velvet summer song.

       At last he said: “Poor lady, how thus long Have I been able to endure that voice?

       Fair Melody! kind Syren! I’ve no choice;

       I must be thy sad servant evermore:

       I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.

       Alas, I must not think–by Phœbe, no!

       Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?

       Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?

       O thou could’st foster me beyond the brink

       Of recollection! make my watchful care

       Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair! Do gently murder half my soul, and I

       Shall feel the other half so utterly!–

       I’m giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;

       O let it blush so ever! let it soothe

       My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm

       With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.–

       This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;

       And this is sure thine other softling–this

       Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!

       Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear! And whisper one sweet word that I may know

       This is this world–sweet dewy blossom!”–Woe!

       Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?–

       Even these words went echoing dismally

       Through the wide forest–a most fearful tone,

       Like one repenting in his latest moan;

       And while it died away a shade pass’d by,

       As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly

       Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth

       Their timid necks and tremble; so these both Leant to each other trembling, and sat so

       Waiting for some destruction–when lo,

       Foot-feather’d Mercury appear’d sublime

       Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time

       Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt

       Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt

       One moment from his home: only the sward

       He with his wand light touch’d, and heavenward

       Swifter than sight was gone–even before

       The teeming earth a sudden witness bore Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear

       Above the crystal circlings white and clear;

       And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,

       How they can dive in sight and unseen rise–

       So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,

       Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.

       The youth of Caria plac’d the lovely dame

       On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame

       The other’s fierceness. Through the air they flew,

       High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew Exhal’d to Phœbus’ lips, away they are gone,

       Far from the earth away–unseen, alone,

       Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,

       The buoyant life of song can floating be

       Above their heads, and follow them untir’d.–

       Muse of my native land, am I inspir’d?

       This is the giddy air, and I must spread

       Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread

       Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance

       Precipitous: I have beneath my glance Those towering horses and their mournful freight.

       Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await

       Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?–

       There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade

       From some approaching wonder, and behold

       Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold

       Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,

       Dying to embers from their native fire!

      There curl’d a purple mist around them; soon,

       It seem’d as when around the pale new moon Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:

       ’Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.

       For the first time, since he came nigh dead born

       From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn

       Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,

       He felt aloof the day and morning’s prime–

       Because into his depth Cimmerian

       There came a dream, shewing how a young man,

       Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,

       Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win An immortality, and how espouse

       Jove’s daughter, and be reckon’d of his house.

       Now was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate,

       That he might at the threshold one hour wait

       To hear the marriage melodies, and then

       Sink downward to his dusky cave again.

       His litter of smooth semilucent mist,

       Diversely ting’d with rose and amethyst,

       Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;

       And scarcely for one moment could be caught His sluggish form reposing motionless.

       Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress

       Of vision search’d for him, as one would look

       Athwart the sallows of a river nook

       To catch a glance at silver throated eels,–

       Or from old Skiddaw’s top, when fog conceals

       His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,

       With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale

       Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.

      These raven horses, though they foster’d are Of earth’s splenetic fire, dully drop

       Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;

       Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread

       Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,–

       And on those pinions, level in mid air,

       Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

       Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle

       Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile

       The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks

       On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks To divine powers: from his hand full fain

       Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain:

       He tries the nerve of Phœbus’ golden bow,

       And asketh where the golden apples grow:

       Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield,

       And strives in vain to unsettle and wield

      

---

Скачать книгу