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sun of spring, and left the skies

      Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes

      In pity of the shatter’d infant buds,–

      That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,

      My hunting cap, because I laugh’d and smil’d,

      Chatted with thee, and many days exil’d

      All torment from my breast;–’twas even then,

      Straying about, yet, coop’d up in the den

      Of helpless discontent,–hurling my lance

      From place to place, and following at chance,

      At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,

      And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck

      In the middle of a brook,–whose silver ramble

      Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,

      Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,

      Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave

      The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,–

      ‘Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock

      Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,

      Hung a lush scene of drooping weeds, and spread

      Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph’s home.

      “Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?”

      Said I, low voic’d: “Ah, whither! ’Tis the grot

      Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,

      Doth her resign; and where her tender hands

      She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:

      Or ’tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,

      And babbles thorough silence, till her wits

      Are gone in tender madness, and anon,

      Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone

      Of sadness. O that she would take my vows,

      And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,

      To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,

      Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,

      And weave them dyingly–send honey-whispers

      Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers

      May sigh my love unto her pitying!

      O charitable echo! hear, and sing

      This ditty to her!–tell her”–so I stay’d

      My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,

      Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,

      And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.

      Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name

      Most fondly lipp’d, and then these accents came:

      “Endymion! the cave is secreter

      Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir

      No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise

      Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys

      And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.”

      At that oppress’d I hurried in.–Ah! where

      Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled?

      I’ll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed

      Sorrow the way to death; but patiently

      Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;

      And come instead demurest meditation,

      To occupy me wholly, and to fashion

      My pilgrimage for the world’s dusky brink.

      No more will I count over, link by link,

      My chain of grief: no longer strive to find

      A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind

      Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,

      Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;

      What a calm round of hours shall make my days.

      There is a paly flame of hope that plays

      Where’er I look: but yet, I’ll say ’tis naught–

      And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,

      Already, a more healthy countenance?

      By this the sun is setting; we may chance

      Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.”

      This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star

      Through autumn mists, and took Peona’s hand:

      They stept into the boat, and launch’d from land.

      Endymion Book II

      O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!

      All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,

      And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:

      For others, good or bad, hatred and tears

      Have become indolent; but touching thine,

      One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,

      One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.

      The woes of Troy, towers smothering o’er their blaze,

      Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,

      Struggling, and blood, and shrieks–all dimly fades

      Into some backward corner of the brain;

      Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain

      The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.

      Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!

      Swart planet in the universe of deeds!

      Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds

      Along the pebbled shore of memory!

      Many old rotten-timber’d boats there be

      Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified

      To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,

      And golden keel’d, is left unlaunch’d and dry.

      But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly

      About the great Athenian admiral’s mast?

      What care, though striding Alexander past

      The Indus with his Macedonian numbers?

      Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers

      The glutted Cyclops, what care?–Juliet leaning

      Amid her window-flowers,–sighing,–weaning

      Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,

      Doth more avail than these: the silver flow

      Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen,

      Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den,

      Are things to brood on with more ardency

      Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully

      Must such conviction come upon his head,

      Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread,

      Without one muse’s smile, or kind behest,

      The path of love and poesy. But rest,

      In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear

      Than to be crush’d, in striving to uprear

      Love’s standard on the battlements of song.

      So once more days

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