Why this fair creature chose so fairily

      By the wayside to linger, we shall see;

      But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse

      And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,

      Of all she list, strange or magnificent:

      How, ever, where she will’d, her spirit went;

      Whether to faint Elysium, or where

      Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair

      Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair;

      Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,

      Stretch’d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;

      Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine

      Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piazzian line.

      And sometimes into cities she would send

      Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;

      And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,

      She saw the young Corinthian Lycius

      Charioting foremost in the envious race,

      Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,

      And fell into a swooning love of him.

      Now on the moth-time of that evening dim

      He would return that way, as well she knew,

      To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew

      The eastern soft wind, and his galley now

      Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow

      In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle

      Fresh anchor’d; whither he had been awhile

      To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there

      Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.

      Jove heard his vows, and better’d his desire;

      For by some freakful chance he made retire

      From his companions, and set forth to walk,

      Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:

      Over the solitary hills he fared,

      Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared

      His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,

      In the calm’d twilight of Platonic shades.

      Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near —

      Close to her passing, in indifference drear,

      His silent sandals swept the mossy green;

      So neighbour’d to him, and yet so unseen

      She stood: he pass’d, shut up in mysteries,

      His mind wrapp’d like his mantle, while her eyes

      Follow’d his steps, and her neck regal white

      Turn’d – syllabling thus, “Ah, Lycius bright,

      And will you leave me on the hills alone?

      Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.”

      He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,

      But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice;

      For so delicious were the words she sung,

      It seem’d he had lov’d them a whole summer long:

      And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,

      Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,

      And still the cup was full, – while he, afraid

      Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid

      Due adoration, thus began to adore;

      Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:

      “Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see

      Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!

      For pity do not this sad heart belie —

      Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.

      Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!

      To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:

      Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,

      Alone they can drink up the morning rain:

      Though a descended Pleiad, will not one

      Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune

      Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?

      So sweetly to these ravish’d ears of mine

      Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade

      Thy memory will waste me to a shade: —

      For pity do not melt!”– “If I should stay,”

      Said Lamia, “here, upon this floor of clay,

      And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,

      What canst thou say or do of charm enough

      To dull the nice remembrance of my home?

      Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam

      Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, —

      Empty of immortality and bliss!

      Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know

      That finer spirits cannot breathe below

      In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,

      What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe

      My essence? What serener palaces,

      Where I may all my many senses please,

      And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?

      It cannot be – Adieu!” So said, she rose

      Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose

      The amorous promise of her lone complain,

      Swoon’d, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.

      The cruel lady, without any show

      Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,

      But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,

      With brighter eyes and slow amenity,

      Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh

      The life she had so tangled in her mesh:

      And as he from one trance was wakening

      Into another, she began to sing,

      Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,

      A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,

      While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires.

      And then she whisper’d in such trembling tone,

      As those who, safe together met alone

      For the first time through many anguish’d days,

      Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise

      His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,

      For that she was a woman, and without

      Any more subtle fluid in her veins

      Than throbbing blood, and that the selfsame pains

      Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.

      And next she wonder’d how his eyes could miss

      Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,

      She