What misery most drowningly doth sing

      In lone Endymion’s ear, now he has caught

      The goal of consciousness? Ah, ’tis the thought,

      The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!

      He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow

      Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild

      In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil’d,

      The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,

      Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest

      Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;

      But far from such companionship to wear

      An unknown time, surcharg’d with grief, away,

      Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,

      Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?

      “No!” exclaimed he, “why should I tarry here?”

      No! loudly echoed times innumerable.

      At which he straightway started, and ‘gan tell

      His paces back into the temple’s chief;

      Warming and growing strong in the belief

      Of help from Dian: so that when again

      He caught her airy form, thus did he plain,

      Moving more near the while. “O Haunter chaste

      Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,

      Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen

      Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen,

      What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?

      Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos

      Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree

      Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe’er it be,

      ’Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste

      Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste

      Thy loveliness in dismal elements;

      But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,

      There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee

      It feels Elysian, how rich to me,

      An exil’d mortal, sounds its pleasant name!

      Within my breast there lives a choking flame–

      O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!

      A homeward fever parches up my tongue–

      O let me slake it at the running springs!

      Upon my car a noisy nothing rings–

      O let me once more hear the linnet’s note!

      Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float–

      O let me ‘noint them with the heaven’s light!

      Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?

      O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice!

      Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice?

      O think how this dry palate would rejoice!

      If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice,

      O think how I should love a bed of flowers!–

      Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!

      Deliver me from this rapacious deep!”

      Thus ending loudly, as he would o’erleap

      His destiny, alert he stood: but when

      Obstinate silence came heavily again,

      Feeling about for its old couch of space

      And airy cradle, lowly bow’d his face

      Desponding, o’er the marble floor’s cold thrill.

      But ’twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill

      To its old channel, or a swollen tide

      To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,

      And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns

      Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns

      Itself, and strives its own delights to hide–

      Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride

      In a long whispering birth enchanted grew

      Before his footsteps; as when heav’d anew

      Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,

      Down whose green back the short-liv’d foam, all hoar,

      Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

      Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,

      Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;

      So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes

      One moment with his hand among the sweets:

      Onward he goes–he stops–his bosom beats

      As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm

      Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm,

      This sleepy music, forc’d him walk tiptoe:

      For it came more softly than the east could blow

      Arion’s magic to the Atlantic isles;

      Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles

      Of thron’d Apollo, could breathe back the lyre

      To seas Ionian and Tyrian.

      O did he ever live, that lonely man,

      Who lov’d–and music slew not? ’Tis the pest

      Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest;

      That things of delicate and tenderest worth

      Are swallow’d all, and made a seared dearth,

      By one consuming flame: it doth immerse

      And suffocate true blessings in a curse.

      Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,

      Is miserable. ’Twas even so with this

      Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian’s ear;

      First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,

      Vanish’d in elemental passion.

      And down some swart abysm he had gone,

      Had not a heavenly guide benignant led

      To where thick myrtle branches, ‘gainst his head

      Brushing, awakened: then the sounds again

      Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain

      Over a bower, where little space he stood;

      For as the sunset peeps into a wood

      So saw he panting light, and towards it went

      Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!

      Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,

      Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.

      After a thousand mazes overgone,

      At last, with sudden step, he came upon

      A chamber, myrtle wall’d, embowered high,

      Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,

      And