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Leigh Hunt’ written the previous March in the copy of his Poems which he gave to Reynolds (see above, p. 57). When Keats read this passage to Bailey at Oxford, Bailey very justly found fault with some forced expressions in it such as ‘baaing vanities,’ and also, he tells us, with what seemed to him an over-done defiance of the traditional way of handling the rimed couplet. From denunciation the verse passes into narrative with the question, ‘Are then regalities all gilded masks?’ The answer is, No, there are a thousand mysterious powers throned in the universe — cosmic powers, as we should now say — most of them far beyond human ken but a few within it; and of these, swears the poet, the moon is ‘the gentlier-mightiest.’ Having once more, in a strain of splendid nature-poetry, praised her, he resumes his tale, and tells how Cynthia, pining no less than Endymion, sends a shaft of her light down to him where he lies on an undersea bed of sand and pearls; how this comforts him, and how at dawn he resumes his fated journey. Here follows a description of the litter of the Ocean floor which, as we shall see later, is something of a challenge to Shakespeare and was in its turn something of an inspiration to Shelley. Endymion now in his own person takes up the inexhaustible theme of the moon’s praise, asking her pardon at the same time for having lately suffered a more rapturous, more absorbing passion to come between him and his former youthful worship of her. At this moment the wanderer’s attention is suddenly diverted, —

      For as he lifted up his eyes to swear

       How his own goddess was past all things fair,

       He saw far in the green concave of the sea

       An old man sitting calm and peacefully.

       Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,

       And his white hair was awful, and a mat

       Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet.

      The old man is Glaucus, and the rest of the book is taken up almost entirely with his story. Keats’ reading of Ovid had made him familiar with this story: but he remodels it radically for his own ethical and symbolic purpose, giving it turns and a sequel quite unknown to antiquity, and even helping himself as he felt the need to certain incidents and machinery of Oriental magic from the Arabian Nights.

      Glaucus at first sight of Endymion greets him joyfully, seeing in him his predestined deliverer from the spell of palsied age which binds him. But Endymion cannot endure the thought of being diverted from his own private quest, and meets the old man’s welcome first with suspicious terror and then with angry defiance. The grey-haired creature weeps: whereupon Endymion, newly awakened to human sympathies, is struck with remorse.

      Had he then wrong’d a heart where sorrow kept?

      ·······

      He had indeed, and he was ripe for tears.

       The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt

       Before that careworn sage.

      They rise and proceed over the ocean floor together. Glaucus tells Endymion his history: how he led a quiet and kind existence as a fisherman long ago, familiar with and befriended by all sea-creatures, even the fiercest, until he was seized with the ambition to be free of Neptune’s kingdom and able to live and breathe beneath the sea; how this desire being granted he loved and pursued the sea-nymph Scylla, and she feared and fled him; how then he asked the aid of the enchantress Circe, who made him her thrall and lapped him in sensual delights while Scylla was forgotten. How the witch, the ‘arbitrary queen of sense,’ one day revealed her true character, and ‘specious heaven was changed to real hell.’ (Is Keats here remembering the closing couplet of Shakespeare’s great sonnet against lust —

      This all the world well knows; but none know well

       To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell?)

      He came upon her torturing her crowd of spell-bound animals, once human beings, fled in terror at the sight, was overtaken, and with savage taunts driven back into his ocean-home. Here he found Scylla cold and dead, killed by Circe’s arts. (In the original myth as told by Ovid and others Glaucus refuses the temptations of Circe, who in revenge inflicts on Scylla a worse punishment than death, transforming her into a sea-monster engirdled with a pack of ravening dogs and stationed as a terror to mariners at the Straits over against Charybdis). Glaucus then tells how he conveyed the body of his dead love to a niche in a vacant undersea temple, where she still remains. Then began the doom of paralysed and helpless senility which the enchantress had condemned him to endure for a thousand years and which still binds him fast, — a doom which inevitably reminds us of such stories as that of the Fisherman in the Arabian Nights, and of the spell laid by Suleiman upon the rebellious Djinn, whom he imprisoned for a thousand and eight hundred years in a bottle until the Fisherman released him.

      Glaucus goes on to relate how once, in the course of his miserable spell-bound existence, he witnessed the drowning of a shipwrecked crew with agony at his own helplessness, and in trying vainly to rescue a sinking old man by the hand found himself left with a wand and scroll which the old man had held. Reading the scroll, he found in it comfortable words of hope and wisdom. (Note that it was through an attempted act of human succour that this wisdom came to him). If he would have patience, so ran the promise of the scroll, to probe all the depths of magic and the hidden secrets of nature — if moreover he would piously through the centuries make it his business to lay side by side in sanctuary all bodies of lovers drowned at sea — there would one day come to him a heaven-favoured youth to whom he would be able to teach the rites necessary for his deliverance. He recognizes the predestined youth in Endymion, who on learning the nature of the promise accepts joyfully his share in the prescribed duty, with the attendant risk of destruction to both if they fail. The young man and the old — or rather ‘the young soul in age’s mask’ — go together to the submarine hall of burial where Scylla and the multitude of drowned lovers lie enshrined. As to the rites that follow and their effect, let us have them in the poet’s own words: —

      ‘Let us commence,’

       Whisper’d the guide, stuttering with joy, ‘even now.’

       He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough,

       Began to tear his scroll in pieces small,

       Uttering the while some mumblings funeral.

       He tore it into pieces small as snow

       That drifts unfeather’d when bleak northerns blow;

       And having done it, took his dark blue cloak

       And bound it round Endymion: then struck

       His wand against the empty air times nine. —

       ‘What more there is to do, young man, is thine:

       But first a little patience; first undo

       This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue.

       Ah, gentle! ’tis as weak as spider’s skein;

       And shouldst thou break it — What, is it done so clean

       A power overshadows thee! O, brave!

       The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave.

       Here is a shell; ’tis pearly blank to me,

       Nor mark’d with any sign or charactery —

       Canst thou read aught? O read for pity’s sake!

       Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break

       This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal.’

       ’Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall

       Sweet music breath’d her soul away, and sigh’d

       A lullaby to silence.— ‘Youth! now strew

       These minced leaves on me, and passing through

       Those files of dead, scatter the same around,

       And thou wilt see the issue.’— ‘Mid the sound

       Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart,

       Endymion from Glaucus stood apart,

       And scatter’d in his face some fragments light.

      

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