What promise hast thou faithful guarded since

      The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows

      Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?

      Alas! ’tis his old grief. For many days,

      Has he been wandering in uncertain ways:

      Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;

      Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes

      Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,

      Hour after hour, to each lush-leav’d rill.

      Now he is sitting by a shady spring,

      And elbow-deep with feverous fingering

      Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree

      Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see

      A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now

      He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!

      It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;

      And, in the middle, there is softly pight

      A golden butterfly; upon whose wings

      There must be surely character’d strange things,

      For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

      Lightly this little herald flew aloft,

      Follow’d by glad Endymion’s clasped hands:

      Onward it flies. From languor’s sullen bands

      His limbs are loos’d, and eager, on he hies

      Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.

      It seem’d he flew, the way so easy was;

      And like a new-born spirit did he pass

      Through the green evening quiet in the sun,

      O’er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,

      Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams

      The summer time away. One track unseams

      A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue

      Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew,

      He sinks adown a solitary glen,

      Where there was never sound of mortal men,

      Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences

      Melting to silence, when upon the breeze

      Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,

      To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet

      Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide,

      Until it reached a splashing fountain’s side

      That, near a cavern’s mouth, for ever pour’d

      Unto the temperate air: then high it soar’d,

      And, downward, suddenly began to dip,

      As if, athirst with so much toil, ’twould sip

      The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch

      Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch

      Even with mealy gold the waters clear.

      But, at that very touch, to disappear

      So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,

      Endymion sought around, and shook each bed

      Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung

      Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue,

      What whisperer disturb’d his gloomy rest?

      It was a nymph uprisen to the breast

      In the fountain’s pebbly margin, and she stood

      ‘Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.

      To him her dripping hand she softly kist,

      And anxiously began to plait and twist

      Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: “Youth!

      Too long, alas, hast thou starv’d on the ruth,

      The bitterness of love: too long indeed,

      Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed

      Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer

      All the bright riches of my crystal coffer

      To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,

      Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,

      Vermilion-tail’d, or finn’d with silvery gauze;

      Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws

      A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands

      Tawny and gold, ooz’d slowly from far lands

      By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,

      My charming rod, my potent river spells;

      Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup

      Meander gave me,–for I bubbled up

      To fainting creatures in a desert wild.

      But woe is me, I am but as a child

      To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,

      Is, that I pity thee; that on this day

      I’ve been thy guide; that thou must wander far

      In other regions, past the scanty bar

      To mortal steps, before thou cans’t be ta’en

      From every wasting sigh, from every pain,

      Into the gentle bosom of thy love.

      Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above:

      But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel!

      I have a ditty for my hollow cell.”

      Hereat, she vanished from Endymion’s gaze,

      Who brooded o’er the water in amaze:

      The dashing fount pour’d on, and where its pool

      Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,

      Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,

      And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill

      Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer,

      Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr

      Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;

      And, while beneath the evening’s sleepy frown

      Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,

      Thus breath’d he to himself: “Whoso encamps

      To take a fancied city of delight,

      O what a wretch is he! and when ’tis his,

      After long toil and travelling, to miss

      The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile:

      Yet, for him there’s refreshment even in toil;

      Another city doth he set about,

      Free from the smallest pebble-head of doubt

      That he will seize on trickling honeycombs:

      Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams,

      And onward to another city speeds.

      But this is human life: the war, the deeds,

      The disappointment, the anxiety,

      Imagination’s struggles, far and nigh,

      All human; bearing in themselves this good,

      That they are still the air, the subtle food,

      To make us feel existence, and to shew

      How