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happy was he, not the aerial blowing

      Of trumpets at clear parley from the east

      Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.

      They stung the feather’d horse: with fierce alarm

      He flapp’d towards the sound. Alas, no charm

      Could lift Endymion’s head, or he had view’d A skyey mask, a pinion’d multitude,–

      And silvery was its passing: voices sweet

      Warbling the while as if to lull and greet

      The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,

      While past the vision went in bright array.

      “Who, who from Dian’s feast would be away?

      For all the golden bowers of the day

      Are empty left? Who, who away would be

      From Cynthia’s wedding and festivity?

      Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings He leans away for highest heaven and sings,

      Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!–

      Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!

      Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,

      Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,

      Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill

      Your baskets high

      With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,

      Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,

      Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme; Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,

      All gather’d in the dewy morning: hie

      Away! fly, fly!–

      Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,

      Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given

      Two liquid pulse streams ‘stead of feather’d wings,

      Two fan-like fountains,–thine illuminings

      For Dian play:

      Dissolve the frozen purity of air;

      Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright

      The Star-Queen’s crescent on her marriage night:

      Haste, haste away!–

      Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!

      And of the Bear has Pollux mastery:

      A third is in the race! who is the third,

      Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?

      The ramping Centaur!

      The Lion’s mane’s on end: the Bear how fierce!

      The Centaur’s arrow ready seems to pierce Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent

      Into the blue of heaven. He’ll be shent,

      Pale unrelentor,

      When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing.–

      Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying

      So timidly among the stars: come hither!

      Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither

      They all are going.

      Danae’s Son, before Jove newly bow’d,

      Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral:

      Ye shall for ever live and love, for all

      Thy tears are flowing.–

      By Daphne’s fright, behold Apollo!–”

      More

      Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore,

      Prone to the green head of a misty hill.

      His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.

      “Alas!” said he, “were I but always borne

      Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn

      A path in hell, for ever would I bless Horrors which nourish an uneasiness

      For my own sullen conquering: to him

      Who lives beyond earth’s boundary, grief is dim,

      Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see

      The grass; I feel the solid ground–Ah, me!

      It is thy voice–divinest! Where?–who? who

      Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?

      Behold upon this happy earth we are;

      Let us ay love each other; let us fare On forest-fruits, and never, never go

      Among the abodes of mortals here below,

      Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny!

      Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly,

      But with thy beauty will I deaden it.

      Where didst thou melt too? By thee will I sit

      For ever: let our fate stop here–a kid

      I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid

      Us live in peace, in love and peace among

      His forest wildernesses. I have clung To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen

      Or felt but a great dream! O I have been

      Presumptuous against love, against the sky,

      Against all elements, against the tie

      Of mortals each to each, against the blooms

      Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs

      Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory

      Has my own soul conspired: so my story

      Will I to children utter, and repent.

      There never liv’d a mortal man, who bent His appetite beyond his natural sphere,

      But starv’d and died. My sweetest Indian, here,

      Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast

      My life from too thin breathing: gone and past

      Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel!

      And air of visions, and the monstrous swell

      Of visionary seas! No, never more

      Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore

      Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.

      Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast My love is still for thee. The hour may come

      When we shall meet in pure elysium.

      On earth I may not love thee; and therefore

      Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store

      All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine

      On me, and on this damsel fair of mine,

      And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss!

      My river-lily bud! one human kiss!

      One sigh of real breath–one gentle squeeze,

      Warm as a dove’s nest among summer trees, And warm with dew at ooze from living blood!

      Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!–all good

      We’ll talk about–no more of dreaming.–Now,

      Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow

      Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun

      Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none;

      And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through,

      Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew?

      O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place;

      Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace Those gentle

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