Globing a golden sphere.

      They stood in dreams

      Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang;

      The Nereids danc’d; the Syrens faintly sang;

      And the great Sea-King bow’d his dripping head.

      Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed

      On all the multitude a nectarous dew.

      The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew

      Fair Scylla and her guides to conference;

      And when they reach’d the throned eminence

      She kist the sea-nymph’s cheek,–who sat her down

      A toying with the doves. Then,–”Mighty crown

      And sceptre of this kingdom!” Venus said,

      “Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid:

      Behold!”–Two copious tear-drops instant fell

      From the God’s large eyes; he smil’d delectable,

      And over Glaucus held his blessing hands.–

      “Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands

      Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour

      I met thee in earth’s bosom, all my power

      Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet

      Escap’d from dull mortality’s harsh net?

      A little patience, youth! ‘twill not be long,

      Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue,

      A humid eye, and steps luxurious,

      Where these are new and strange, are ominous.

      Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven,

      When others were all blind; and were I given

      To utter secrets, haply I might say

      Some pleasant words:–but Love will have his day.

      So wait awhile expectant. Pr’ythee soon,

      Even in the passing of thine honeymoon,

      Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find

      Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind;

      And pray persuade with thee–Ah, I have done,

      All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!”–

      Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion

      Knelt to receive those accents halcyon.

      Meantime a glorious revelry began

      Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran

      In courteous fountains to all cups outreach’d;

      And plunder’d vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach’d

      New growth about each shell and pendent lyre;

      The which, in disentangling for their fire,

      Pull’d down fresh foliage and coverture

      For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure,

      Flutter’d and laugh’d, and ofttimes through the throng

      Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song,

      And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign’d.

      In harmless tendril they each other chain’d,

      And strove who should be smother’d deepest in

      Fresh crush of leaves.

      O ’tis a very sin

      For one so weak to venture his poor verse

      In such a place as this. O do not curse,

      High Muses! let him hurry to the ending.

      All suddenly were silent. A soft blending

      Of dulcet instruments came charmingly;

      And then a hymn.

      “King of the stormy sea!

      Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor

      Of elements! Eternally before

      Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock,

      At thy fear’d trident shrinking, doth unlock

      Its deep foundations, hissing into foam.

      All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home

      Of thy capacious bosom ever flow.

      Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe

      Skulks to his cavern, ‘mid the gruff complaint

      Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint

      When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam

      Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team

      Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along

      To bring thee nearer to that golden song

      Apollo singeth, while his chariot

      Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not

      For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou;

      And it hath furrow’d that large front: yet now,

      As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit

      To blend and interknit

      Subdued majesty with this glad time.

      O shell-borne King sublime!

      We lay our hearts before thee evermore–

      We sing, and we adore!

      “Breathe softly, flutes;

      Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes;

      Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain;

      Not flowers budding in an April rain,

      Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river’s flow,–

      No, nor the Eolian twang of Love’s own bow,

      Can mingle music fit for the soft ear

      Of goddess Cytherea!

      Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes

      On our souls’ sacrifice.

      “Bright-winged Child!

      Who has another care when thou hast smil’d?

      Unfortunates on earth, we see at last

      All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast

      Our spirits, fann’d away by thy light pinions.

      O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions!

      God of warm pulses, and dishevell’d hair,

      And