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did not stir

      His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse

       Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls

       Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.

       A little onward ran the very stream

       By which he took his first soft poppy dream;

       And on the very bark ‘gainst which he leant

       A crescent he had carv’d, and round it spent

       His skill in little stars. The teeming tree

       Had swollen and green’d the pious charactery,

       But not ta’en out. Why, there was not a slope

       Up which he had not fear’d the antelope;

       And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade He had not with his tamed leopards play’d;

       Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,

       Fly in the air where his had never been–

      And yet he knew it not.

      O treachery!

      Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye

       With all his sorrowing? He sees her not.

       But who so stares on him? His sister sure!

       Peona of the woods!–Can she endure–

       Impossible–how dearly they embrace! His lady smiles; delight is in her face;

      It is no treachery.

      “Dear brother mine!

      Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine

       When all great Latmos so exalt will be?

       Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;

       And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.

       Sure I will not believe thou hast such store

       Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.

       Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.

       Be happy both of you! for I will pull

       The flowers of autumn for your coronals.

       Pan’s holy priest for young Endymion calls;

       And when he is restor’d, thou, fairest dame,

       Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame

       To see ye thus,–not very, very sad?

       Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad:

       O feel as if it were a common day;

       Free-voic’d as one who never was away. No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall

       Be gods of your own rest imperial.

       Not even I, for one whole month, will pry

       Into the hours that have pass’d us by,

       Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.

       O Hermes! on this very night will be

       A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light;

       For the soothsayers old saw yesternight

       Good visions in the air,–whence will befal,

       As say these sages, health perpetual To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,

       In Dian’s face they read the gentle lore:

       Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.

       Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.

       Many upon thy death have ditties made;

       And many, even now, their foreheads shade

       With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.

       New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,

       And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen’s brows.

       Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse This wayward brother to his rightful joys!

       His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise

       His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray,

       To lure–Endymion, dear brother, say

       What ails thee?” He could bear no more, and so

       Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,

       And twang’d it inwardly, and calmly said:

       “I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!

       My only visitor! not ignorant though,

       That those deceptions which for pleasure go ‘Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:

       But there are higher ones I may not see,

       If impiously an earthly realm I take.

       Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake

       Night after night, and day by day, until

       Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.

       Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me

       More happy than betides mortality.

       A hermit young, I’ll live in mossy cave,

       Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.

       Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;

       For to thy tongue will I all health confide.

       And, for my sake, let this young maid abide

       With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,

       Peona, mayst return to me. I own

       This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl,

       Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl

       Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair!

       Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share This sister’s love with me?” Like one resign’d

       And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind

       In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown:

       “Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,

       Of jubilee to Dian:–truth I heard!

       Well then, I see there is no little bird,

       Tender soever, but is Jove’s own care.

       Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,

       Behold I find it! so exalted too!

       So after my own heart! I knew, I knew There was a place untenanted in it:

       In that same void white Chastity shall sit,

       And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.

       With sanest lips I vow me to the number

       Of Dian’s sisterhood; and, kind lady,

       With thy good help, this very night shall see

       My future days to her fane consecrate.”

      As feels a dreamer what doth most create

       His own particular fright, so these three felt:

       Or like one who, in after ages, knelt To Lucifer or Baal, when he’d pine

       After a little sleep: or when in mine

       Far underground, a sleeper meets his friends

       Who know him not. Each diligently bends

       Towards common thoughts and things for very fear;

       Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,

       By thinking it a thing of yes and no,

       That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow

       Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last

       Endymion said: “Are

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