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reach’d the river’s brim. Then up he rose,

      And, slowly as that very river flows,

      Walk’d towards the temple grove with this lament:

      “Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent

      Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall

      Before the serene father of them all

      Bows down his summer head below the west.

      Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, But at the setting I must bid adieu

      To her for the last time. Night will strew

      On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves,

      And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves

      To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.

      Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord

      Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,

      Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses;

      My kingdom’s at its death, and just it is

      That I should die with it: so in all this We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe,

      What is there to plain of? By Titan’s foe

      I am but rightly serv’d.” So saying, he

      Tripp’d lightly on, in sort of deathful glee;

      Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,

      As though they jests had been: nor had he done

      His laugh at nature’s holy countenance,

      Until that grove appear’d, as if perchance,

      And then his tongue with sober seemlihed

      Gave utterance as he entered: “Ha!” I said, “King of the butterflies; but by this gloom,

      And by old Rhadamanthus’ tongue of doom,

      This dusk religion, pomp of solitude,

      And the Promethean clay by thief endued,

      By old Saturnus’ forelock, by his head

      Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed

      Myself to things of light from infancy;

      And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die,

      Is sure enough to make a mortal man

      Grow impious.” So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found;

      Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown’d

      Beyond the reach of music: for the choir

      Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar

      Nor muffling thicket interpos’d to dull

      The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,

      Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.

      He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,

      Wan as primroses gather’d at midnight

      By chilly finger’d spring. “Unhappy wight! Endymion!” said Peona, “we are here!

      What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?”

      Then he embrac’d her, and his lady’s hand

      Press’d, saying: “Sister, I would have command,

      If it were heaven’s will, on our sad fate.”

      At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate

      And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love,

      To Endymion’s amaze: “By Cupid’s dove,

      And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth

      Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!” And as she spake, into her face there came

      Light, as reflected from a silver flame:

      Her long black hair swell’d ampler, in display

      Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day

      Dawn’d blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld

      Phœbe, his passion! joyous she upheld

      Her lucid bow, continuing thus: “Drear, drear

      Has our delaying been; but foolish fear

      Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;

      And then ’twas fit that from this mortal state Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook’d for change

      Be spiritualiz’d. Peona, we shall range

      These forests, and to thee they safe shall be

      As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee

      To meet us many a time.” Next Cynthia bright

      Peona kiss’d, and bless’d with fair good night:

      Her brother kiss’d her too, and knelt adown

      Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.

      She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,

      Before three swiftest kisses he had told, They vanish’d far away!–Peona went

      Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.

      These raven horses, though they foster’d are

      Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;

      Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread

      Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,–

      And on those pinions, level in mid air,

      Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

      Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle

      Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile

      The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks

      On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks

      To divine powers: from his hand full fain

      Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain:

      He tries the nerve of Phœbus’ golden bow,

      And asketh where the golden apples grow:

      Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield,

      And strives in vain to unsettle and wield

      A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings

      A full-brimm’d goblet, dances lightly, sings

      And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,

      And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,

      Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.

      He blows a bugle,–an ethereal band

      Are visible above: the Seasons four,–

      Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store

      In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar,

      Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,

      In swells unmitigated, still doth last

      To sway their floating morris. “Whose is this?

      Whose bugle?” he inquires: they smile–”O Dis!

      Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know

      Its mistress’ lips? Not thou?–’Tis Dian’s: lo!

      She rises crescented!” He looks, ’tis she,

      His very goddess: goodbye earth, and sea,

      And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;

      Goodbye to all but love! Then doth he spring

      Towards her, and awakes–and, strange, o’erhead,

      Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,

      Beheld awake his very dream: the gods

      Stood

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