■^
 
 ,«
 
 KEATS
 
 ^Sz librid 
 C. K. OGDEH 
 
 POEMS OF KEATS 
 
 AN ANTHOLOGY 
 IN COMMEMORATION OF THE 
 POET'S DEATH, FEBRUARY 23 
 
 1821 
 
 RICHARD 
 
 COBDEN-SANDERSON 
 
 17 THAVIES INN 
 
 1921
 
 X SAhTA EAiiSAliA 
 
 THIS ANTHOLOGY, In commemoration of the 
 death of Keats, is based on the Anthology printed and 
 pubHshed at the Doves Press in 1914. In the arrange- 
 ment of the Poems, the Sonnet — Bright star ! Would 
 I were constant as thou art — has been placed first, 
 that from the outset the Reader may have present to 
 his imagination the ever threatening cry towards 
 which, deathwards progressing, all the passion of the 
 Poet is tending, whilst at the end has been placed the 
 earlier sonnet — Much have I travelled in the realms 
 of gold — that the final vision of the Poet may be of 
 one upon whom, as upon some watcher of the skies, 
 has burst the silvery splendour of a new and more 
 beauteous star — Swung high in unascended majesty — 
 his own predestined sphere of song accomplished, 
 unquenchably the same, by passion uneclipsed. 
 
 The intervenient Poems are arranged in five Parts. 
 In Part I, entitled Induction, I have placed, as speci- 
 mens of his earlier work, and for their own sake, 
 three poems selected from the Poet's first collection 
 of verse, published in 18 17 ; i, a poem originally, and 
 in this Anthology, called Endymion, perhaps at one 
 time intended as an introduction to the greater poem 
 of that name ; ii, a specimen of an Induction ; and 
 iii, Sleep and Poetry, the first ambitious composition 
 of the Poet and, as has been well said, at once the ex- 
 pression of his own poetic aspirations and a declaration 
 of war against the poetic ideals of the eighteenth 
 century. In Parts II and IV I have arranged the 
 
 9
 
 Tales and Odes and Roundelays which appeared in 
 the second collection of Poems published in the 
 Lamia Volume of 1820; and between Parts II and 
 IV, in Part III, I have inserted eighteen Sonnets, all 
 expressive, or illustrative, of the passions and affections 
 of the Poet's tragic life ; though not to him, in life, 
 came the day to be born of the gentle South, or, as 
 described in Sonnet XVII, a Poet's death. Finally, 
 in Part V, I have placed two works of noble note, the 
 two versions of Hyperion, the Fragment and the 
 Dream, and so have closed this many-flowered and 
 many-coloured commemorative Anthology of the 
 Poet's verse. 
 
 The Poet was born at Finsbury on the 31st October, 
 1795, and on the 23rd February, 1821, died at Rome, 
 where, beside the ashes of Shelley, his body, the 
 broken lily, lies. 
 
 T. J. COBDEN-SANDERSON. 
 
 10
 
 CONTENTS
 
 Page 
 PREFATORY NOTE 9 
 
 SONNET : 
 
 Bright Star ! would I were stedfast as thou 
 art . 18 
 
 PART I. INDUCTION : 
 
 i. ENDYMION (1 8 16). 
 
 I stood tiptoe upon a httle hill . 21 
 
 ii. SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION. 
 
 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry . 30 
 iii. SLEEP AND POETRY. 
 
 What is more gentle than a wind in 
 summer ? . . . . -33 
 
 PART II. TALES (with included Lyrics) : 
 i. ISABELLA. 
 
 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! . 48 
 
 — -ii^^AERY SONG. 
 
 Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear ! . 69 
 iii. THE EVE OF ST MARK. 
 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell . . 70 
 
 iv. SONG. 
 
 The stranger Hghted from his steed . 75 
 V. THE EVE OF ST AGNES. 
 
 St Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! "^6 
 vi. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCIE. 
 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 90 
 vii. LAMIA. 
 
 Upon a time, before the faery broods 92 
 12
 
 PART III. SONNETS : 
 
 i. Many the wonders I this day have seen 
 ii. Small, busy flames play through the fresh 
 laid coals ..... 
 
 iii. O solitude ! If I must with thee dwell . 
 
 iv. Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 
 
 there ...... 
 
 V. How many bards gild the lapses of time 
 vi. The poetry of earth is never dead 
 vii. To onQ who has been long in city pent 
 viii. O golden-tongued Romance with serene 
 
 lute 
 
 ix. Great spirits now on earth are sojourning 
 
 — X. When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 
 xi. Time's sea hath been five years at its slow 
 
 ebb 
 
 — — xii. I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — ay, love 
 xiii. O soft embalmer 'of the still midnight ! 
 
 ^ xiv. As Hermes once took to his feathers light 
 
 XV. Come hither all sweet maidens soberly . 
 xvi. Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice 
 
 will tell. ..... 125 
 
 xvii. After dark vapors have oppress'd our 
 
 plains . . . . . .126 
 
 xviii. Four seasons fill the measure of the year 126 
 
 PART IV : ODES (with included Roundelays) : 
 i. TO MAIA. 
 
 Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful 
 Maia! 128 
 
 13 
 
 Page 
 
 118 
 
 118 
 
 119 
 
 119 
 
 120 
 
 120 
 
 121 
 
 121 
 
 122 
 
 122 
 
 123 
 
 123 
 
 124 
 
 124 
 
 125
 
 PART IV (Continued) : Page 
 
 ii. TO PAN. 
 
 O Thou, whose mighty palace roof 
 doth hang ..... 129 
 iii. TO SORROW. 
 
 O Sorrow . . . . .132 
 
 iv. TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numb- 
 ness pains . . . . -138 
 V. ON A GRECIAN URN. 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quiet- 
 ness ..... 142 
 vi. TO PSYCHE. 
 
 O goddess ! hear these tuneless num- 
 bers, wrung .... 144 
 vii. FANCY. 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam . . . 147 
 
 viii. ODE. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth . . 151 
 
 ix. ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone . . 153 
 
 X. ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 No ! those days are gone away . 154 
 
 xi. TO AUTUMN. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 157 
 xii. ON MELANCHOLY. 
 
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 159 
 xiii. ON INDOLENCE. 
 
 One morn before me were three figures 
 seen ...... 161 
 
 H
 
 PART IV (Continued) : Page 
 
 xiv. THE THRUSH. 
 
 O thou ! whose face hath felt the 
 Winter's wind . . . .164 
 
 PART V. HYPERION. 
 
 A. HYPERION : A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale . 166 
 
 B. THE FALL OF HYPERION : A 
 
 DREAM. 
 
 Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith 
 they weave . . . .198 
 
 SONNET : 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 218 
 
 TABLE OF YEARS 219 
 
 15
 
 SONNET
 
 BRIGHT STAR, would I were stedfast as thou art 
 
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
 
 Like nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 The moving waters at their priestlike task 
 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors ; 
 No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, 
 
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
 
 POEMS
 
 PART I. INDUCTION
 
 I STOOD tip-toe upon a little hill, PART I 
 
 The air was cooHng, and so very still, i 
 
 That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
 
 Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 
 
 Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems. 
 
 Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
 
 Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
 
 The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn. 
 
 And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 
 
 On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
 
 A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
 
 Born of the very sigh that silence heaves : 
 
 For not the faintest motion could be seen 
 
 Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
 
 There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, 
 
 To peer about upon variety ; 
 
 Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim. 
 And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
 
 To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
 
 Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending ; 
 
 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 
 
 Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 
 
 I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
 
 As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
 
 Had play'd upon my heels : I was Hght-hearted, 
 
 And many pleasures to my vision started : 
 
 So I straightway began to pluck a posy 
 
 Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 
 
 f A bush of May flowers with the bees about them ; 
 
 21
 
 PART I Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them ; 
 i And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 
 
 And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 
 
 Moist, cool and green ; and shade the violets, 
 
 That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 
 
 ^ A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined, 
 
 And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
 
 Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be 
 
 The frequent chequer of a youngling tree. 
 
 That with a score of light green brethren shoots 
 
 From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 
 
 Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
 
 Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 
 
 The spreading blue bells : it may haply mourn 
 
 That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
 
 From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly 
 
 By infant hands, left on the path to die. 
 
 U Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
 
 Ye ardent marigolds ! 
 
 Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
 
 For great Apollo bids 
 
 That in these days your praises should be sung 
 
 On many harps, which he has lately strung ; 
 
 And when again your dewiness he kisses. 
 
 Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
 
 So haply when I rove in some far vale. 
 
 His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 
 
 fl Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight : 
 
 With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 
 
 22
 
 And taper fingers catching at all things, PART I 
 
 To bind them all about with tiny rings. i 
 
 ^ Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
 
 That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 
 
 And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
 
 They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. 
 
 How silent comes the water round that bend ; 
 
 Not the minutest whisper does it send 
 
 To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass 
 
 Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 
 
 Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 
 
 To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 
 
 A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 
 
 Where swarms of minnows show their little heads. 
 
 Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 
 
 To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
 
 Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle 
 
 With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 
 
 Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 
 
 If you but scantily hold out the hand. 
 
 That very instant not one will remain ; 
 
 But turn your eye, and they are there again. 
 
 The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 
 
 And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ; 
 
 The while they cool themselves, they freshness give. 
 
 And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 
 
 So keeping up an interchange of favours. 
 
 Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. 
 
 Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
 
 23
 
 PART I From low hung branches ; little space they stop ; 
 i But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 
 
 Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 
 Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings, 
 Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 
 Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 
 That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away. 
 Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 
 Fanning away the dandelion's down ; 
 Than the light music of her nimble toes 
 Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 
 How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 
 Playing in all her innocence of thought. 
 O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, 
 Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look ; 
 O let me for one moment touch her wrist ; 
 Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 
 And as she leaves me, may she often turn 
 Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. 
 m What next ? A tuft of evening primroses. 
 O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
 O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
 But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 
 Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 
 Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; 
 Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 
 Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 
 Coming into the blue with all her light. 
 O Maker of sweet poets, dear deUght 
 24 •
 
 Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ; PART I 
 
 Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, i 
 
 Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 
 
 Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 
 
 Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 
 
 Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 
 
 Thee must I praise above all other glories 
 
 That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 
 
 For what has made the sage or poet write 
 
 But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 
 
 In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 
 
 We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 
 
 And when a tale is beautifully staid, 
 
 We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 
 
 When it is moving on luxurious wings, 
 
 The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 
 
 Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 
 
 And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 
 
 O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar. 
 
 And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 
 
 While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 
 
 Charms us at once away from all our troubles : 
 
 So that we feel uplifted from the world. 
 
 Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd. 
 
 So felt he, who first told how Psyche went 
 
 On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 
 
 What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 
 
 First touch'd ; what amorous and fondling nips 
 
 They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, 
 
 25
 
 PART I And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : 
 ^|i The silver lamp, — the ravishment — the wonder — 
 
 The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder ; 
 Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, 
 To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 
 So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside, 
 That we might look into a forest wide, 
 To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 
 Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 
 And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, 
 Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 
 Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 
 Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
 Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find 
 Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 
 Along the reedy stream ; a half-heard strain, 
 Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 
 m What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
 Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
 In some delicious ramble, he had found 
 A little space, with boughs all woven round ; 
 And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
 Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool 
 The blue sky, here, and there, serenely peeping 
 Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 
 And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
 A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride, 
 Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness. 
 To woo its own sad image into nearness : 
 26 
 
 I
 
 Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; PART I 
 
 But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. i 
 
 So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 
 
 Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ; 
 
 Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
 
 Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 
 
 m Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew 
 
 That sweetest of all songs, that ever new. 
 
 That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 
 
 Coming ever to bless 
 
 The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing 
 
 Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 
 
 From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 
 
 And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
 
 Full in the speculation of the stars. 
 
 Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars. 
 
 Into some wond'rous region he had gone. 
 
 To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 
 
 m He was a Poet, sure a lover too. 
 
 Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 
 
 Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
 
 And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow 
 
 A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling. 
 
 The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 
 
 But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 
 
 Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 
 
 The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
 
 Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 
 
 So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won. 
 
 27
 
 PART I And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 
 
 i H Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
 
 Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! 
 As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
 So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
 O for three words of honey, that 1 might 
 Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 
 f[ Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 
 Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels. 
 And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 
 Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
 The evening weather was so bright, and clear, 
 That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 
 Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call. 
 Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 
 And lovely women were as fair and warm 
 As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 
 The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 
 And crept through half-closed lattices to cure 
 The languid sick ; it cool'd their fever'd sleep. 
 And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 
 Soon they awoke clear eyed : nor burnt with thirsting. 
 Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : 
 And springing up, they met the wondering sight 
 Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; 
 Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, 
 And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 
 Young men and maidens at each other gaz'd 
 With hands held back, and motionless, amazed 
 28
 
 To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; PART 1 
 
 And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, i 
 
 Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. 
 
 Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 
 
 But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken. 
 
 Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 
 
 Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses, 
 
 That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : 
 
 Was there a Poet born ? — but now no more, 
 
 My wandering spirit must no further soar. 
 
 29
 
 PART I LO ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
 
 ii For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. 
 
 Not like the formal crest of latter days : 
 But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; 
 So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 
 Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand. 
 Could charm them into such an attitude. 
 We must think rather, that in playful mood 
 Some mountain breeze had turn'd its chief delight 
 To show this wonder of its gentle might. 
 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
 For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 
 Athwart the morning air : some lady sweet. 
 Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 
 From the worn top of some old battlement 
 Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent : 
 And from her own pure self no joy dissembUng, 
 Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 
 Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take, 
 It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 
 With the young aspen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, 
 And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 
 Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty. 
 When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 
 And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 
 And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? 
 Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, 
 Leaps to the honors of a tournament. 
 And makes the gazers round about the ring 
 
 30
 
 Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? PART I 
 
 No, no ! this is far off : — then how shall I ii 
 
 Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy, 
 
 Which linger yet about lone gothic arches. 
 
 In dark green ivy, and among wild larches ? 
 
 How sing the splendour of the revelries, 
 
 When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees ? 
 
 And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, 
 
 Beneath the shade of stately banneral, 
 
 Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? 
 
 Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 
 
 Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces 
 
 Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 
 
 Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens : 
 
 Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 
 
 Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : 
 
 Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by ? 
 
 Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight 
 
 Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 
 
 fl Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 
 And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind ; 
 And always does my heart with pleasure dance, 
 When I think on thy noble countenance : 
 Where never yet was aught more earthly seen 
 Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 
 Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 
 Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 
 My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 
 
 31'
 
 PART I Thus startles unaware, 
 
 ii Be jealous that the foot of other wight 
 
 Should madly follow that bright path of light 
 Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas ; he will speak, 
 And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 
 That I will follow with due reverence, 
 And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 
 Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope 
 To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope : 
 The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers ; 
 Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 
 
 32
 
 WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer ? PART I 
 
 What is more soothing than the pretty hummer Hi 
 
 That stays one moment in an open flower, 
 
 And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 
 
 What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 
 
 In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? 
 
 More healthful than the leaiiness of dales ? 
 
 More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
 
 More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 
 
 More full of visions than a high romance ? 
 
 What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes ! 
 
 Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 
 
 Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 
 
 Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 
 
 Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
 
 Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses 
 
 Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
 
 That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise. 
 
 ^ But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 
 
 Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ? 
 
 More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, 
 
 Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle ? 
 
 What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? 
 
 It has a glory, and nought else can share it : 
 
 The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy. 
 
 Chasing away all worldliness and folly. 
 
 Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder, 
 
 Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 
 
 And sometimes like a gentle whispering 
 
 c 33
 
 PART I Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing 
 ill That breathes about us in the vacant air ; 
 
 So that we look around with prying stare, 
 Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning ; 
 And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning ; 
 To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, 
 That is to crown our name when life is ended. 
 Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 
 And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 
 And die away in ardent mutterings. 
 fl No one who once the glorious sun has seen, 
 And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
 For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
 What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow : 
 Therefore no insult will I give his spirit 
 By telling what he sees from native merit. 
 U O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen. 
 That am not yet a glorious denizen 
 Of thy wide heaven — Should I rather kneel 
 Upon some mountain-top until I feel 
 A glowing splendour round about me hung, 
 And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? 
 O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen, 
 That am not yet a glorious denizen 
 Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, 
 Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
 Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath 
 Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 
 
 34
 
 Of luxury, and my young spirit follow PART I 
 
 The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo iii 
 
 Like a fresh sacrifice : or, if I can bear 
 
 The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair 
 
 Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
 
 Will be elysium — an eternal book 
 
 Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
 
 About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 
 
 Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 
 
 Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 
 And many a verse from so strange influence 
 That we must ever wonder how, and whence 
 
 It came. Also imaginings will hover 
 
 Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 
 
 Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander 
 
 In happy silence, like the clear Meander 
 
 Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 
 
 Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot. 
 
 Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress 
 
 Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 
 
 Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 
 
 All that was for our human senses fitted. 
 
 Then the events of this wide world I'd seize 
 
 Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze 
 
 Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 
 
 Wings to find out an immortality. 
 
 m Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; 
 
 A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
 
 From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep 
 
 35
 
 PART I While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
 iii Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
 
 Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 
 The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
 The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
 A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 
 A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, 
 Riding the springy branches of an elm. 
 ^ O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
 Myself in poesy ; so I may do the deed 
 That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
 Then will I pass the countries that I see 
 In long perspective, and continually 
 Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass 
 Of Flora, and old Pan : sleep in the grass, 
 Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 
 And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ; 
 Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, 
 To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 
 Play with their lingers, touch their shoulders white 
 Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 
 As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 
 A lovely tale of human life we'll read. 
 And one will teach a tame dove how it best 
 May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; 
 Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 
 Win set a green robe floating round her head. 
 And still will dance with ever varied ease. 
 Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 
 
 36
 
 Another will entice me on, and on, PART I 
 
 Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; iit 
 
 Till in the bosom of a leafy world 
 We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 
 In the recesses of a pearly shell. 
 fl And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 
 Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life. 
 Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
 Of human hearts : for lo ! I sec afar, 
 O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
 And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 
 Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : 
 And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 
 Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with sprightly 
 Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 
 Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 
 Still downward with capricious whirl they glide ; 
 And now I see them on a green hill's side 
 In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
 The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks 
 To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 
 Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 
 Passing along before a dusky space 
 Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 
 Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep. 
 Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep : 
 Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 
 Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
 Between their arms ; some, clear in youthful bloom, 
 
 37
 
 PART I Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 
 
 iii Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 
 
 Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 
 Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 
 Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 
 And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 
 The driver of those steeds is forward bent, 
 And seems to listen : O that I might know 
 All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. 
 m The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
 Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
 A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
 And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
 My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
 Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 
 The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
 Journey it went. ^ Is there so small a range 
 In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly 
 As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds. 
 Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
 Upon the clouds ? Has she not shown us all ? 
 From the clear space of ether, to the small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the meaning 
 Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening 
 Of April meadows ? Here her altar shone, 
 E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 
 The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
 Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
 38
 
 Its mighty self of convoluting sound, PART I 
 
 Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, iii 
 
 Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
 
 Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 
 
 With honors ; nor had any other care 
 
 Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. 
 
 ff Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 
 
 Nurtured by foppery and barbarism 
 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
 
 Men were thought wise who could not understand 
 
 His glories : with a puling infant's force 
 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking horse. 
 
 And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd ! 
 
 The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 
 
 Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 
 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
 
 Of summer nights collected still to make 
 
 The morning precious : beauty was awake ! 
 
 Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 
 
 To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 
 
 To'musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
 
 And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 
 
 Of dolts to smoothe, inlay, and cHp, and fit, 
 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 
 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 
 Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
 
 That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face. 
 
 And did not know it, — no, they went about, 
 
 39
 
 PART I Holding a poor, decrepit standard out 
 
 iii Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
 
 The name of one Boileau ! U O ye whose charge 
 
 It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
 
 Whose congregated majesty so fills 
 
 My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
 
 Your hallow'd names, in this unholy place. 
 
 So near those common folk ; did not their shames 
 
 Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 
 
 Delight you ? Did ye never cluster round 
 
 Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound. 
 
 And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
 
 To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
 
 Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
 
 To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 
 
 Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even so : 
 
 But let me think away those times of woe : 
 
 Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
 
 Rich benefactions o'er us'; ye have wreathed 
 
 Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 
 
 In many places ; — some has been upstirr'd 
 
 From out its crystal dwelling in a lake. 
 
 By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake. 
 
 Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
 
 Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 
 
 About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 
 
 ^ These things are doubtless : yet in truth we've had 
 
 Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 
 
 Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, 
 
 40
 
 From majesty : but in clear truth the themes PART I 
 
 Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes iii 
 
 Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 
 
 Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of power ; 
 
 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm. 
 
 The very archings of her eye-lids charm 
 
 A thousand willing agents to obey, 
 
 And still she governs with the mildest sway : 
 
 But strength alone, though of the Muses born, 
 
 Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn. 
 
 Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 
 
 Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 
 
 And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 
 
 Of poesy, that it should be a friend 
 
 To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 
 
 m Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 
 
 E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
 
 Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
 
 A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
 
 All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 
 
 Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 
 
 Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
 
 Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
 
 From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, 
 
 Yeaned in after times, when we are flown, 
 
 Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
 
 With simple flowers : let there nothing be 
 
 More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 
 
 Nought more ungentle than the placid look 
 
 41
 
 PART I Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
 
 iii Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes 
 
 * Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes ! 
 
 As she was wont, th' imagination 
 Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
 And they shall be accounted poet kings 
 Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 
 O may these joys be ripe before I die. 
 m Will not some say that I presumptuously 
 Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
 'Twere better far to hide my foolish face ? 
 That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 
 Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach me ? How ! 
 If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
 In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
 If I do fall, at least I will be laid 
 Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 
 And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; 
 And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 
 But off Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
 They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 
 A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 
 What though I am not wealthy in the dower 
 Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 
 The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 
 Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 
 Of man : though no great minist'ring reason sorts 
 Out the dark mysteries of human souls 
 To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 
 
 42
 
 A vast idea before me, and I glean PART I 
 
 Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I've seen iii 
 
 The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 
 
 As anything most true ; as that the year 
 
 Is made of the four seasons — manifest 
 
 As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest. 
 
 Lifted to the w^hite clouds. Therefore should I 
 
 Be but the essence of deformity, 
 
 A coward, did my very eye-lids wink 
 
 At speaking out what I have dared to think. 
 
 Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 
 
 Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 
 
 Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down 
 
 Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an inward frown 
 
 Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 
 
 An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 
 
 Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! 
 
 How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 
 
 Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 
 
 Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees. 
 
 I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
 
 Impossible ! U For sweet relief I'll dwell 
 
 On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay 
 
 Begun in gentleness die so away. 
 
 E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
 
 I turn full hearted to the friendly aids 
 
 That smooth the path of honour ; brotherhood, 
 
 And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 
 
 The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 
 
 43
 
 Part I into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
 
 iii The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; 
 
 And when they're come, the very pleasant rout ; 
 The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
 'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 
 Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 
 To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 
 Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
 Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; 
 Many delights of that glad day recalling. 
 When first my senses caught their tender falling. 
 And with these airs come forms of elegance 
 Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 
 Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 
 Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift bound 
 Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
 Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
 Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
 Of words at opening a portfolio. 
 ^ Things such as these are ever harbingers 
 To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
 Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : 
 A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
 A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, 
 Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted 
 With over pleasure — many, many more. 
 Might I indulge at large in all my store 
 Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
 Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
 
 44
 
 For what there may be worthy in these rhymes PART I 
 
 I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes iii 
 
 Of friendly voices had just given place 
 
 To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
 
 The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
 
 It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
 
 Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung 
 
 The glorious features of the bards who sung 
 
 In other ages — cold and sacred busts 
 
 Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 
 
 To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 
 
 Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 
 
 At swelling apples with a frisky leap 
 
 And reaching fingers 'mid a luscious heap 
 
 Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 
 
 Of liny marble, and thereto a train 
 
 Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 
 
 One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 
 
 The dazzling sun-rise : two sisters sweet 
 
 Bending their graceful figures till they meet 
 
 Over the trippings of a little child : 
 
 And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 
 
 Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 
 
 See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 
 
 Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; 
 
 A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 
 
 At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 
 
 With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 
 
 Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er 
 
 45
 
 PART I Its rocky marge, and balances once more 
 
 iii The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam 
 
 Feel about their undulating home. 
 ^ Sappho's meek head was there half smiHng down 
 At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown 
 Of over thinking had that moment gone 
 From off her brow, and left her all alone. 
 H Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes, 
 As if he always listen'd to the sighs 
 Of the goaded world : and Kosciusko's worn 
 By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. 
 m Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green. 
 Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean 
 His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! 
 For over them was seen a free display 
 Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone 
 The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
 She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. 
 The very sense of where I was might well 
 Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that there came 
 Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 
 Within my breast ; so that the morning light 
 Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 
 And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, 
 Resolving to begin that very day 
 These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 
 I leave them as a father does his son. 
 
 46
 
 PART II. TALES (WITH INCLUDED 
 LYRICS)
 
 I 
 
 PART II FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 
 
 i Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
 
 They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 
 
 Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
 They could not sit at meals but feel how well 
 
 It soothed each to be the other by ; 
 They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
 But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 
 
 II 
 
 With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
 With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 
 
 He might not in house, field, or garden stir, 
 But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 
 
 And his continual voice was pleasanter 
 To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 
 
 Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 
 
 She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 
 
 Ill 
 
 He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
 Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 
 
 And from her chamber-window he would catch 
 Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 
 
 And constant as her vespers would he watch, 
 Because her face was turn'd to the same skies ; 
 
 And with sickly longing all the night outwear. 
 
 To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 
 
 48
 
 IV 
 
 A whole long month of May in this sad plight PART II 
 
 Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : i 
 
 To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 
 To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon. 
 
 O may I never see another night, 
 Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune. 
 
 So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 
 
 Moneyless days and days did he let pass ; 
 
 V 
 
 Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
 
 Fell sick within the rose's just domain, 
 Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
 
 By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 
 How ill she is, said he, I may not speak, 
 
 And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 
 If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 
 And at the least 'twill startle off her cares. 
 
 VI 
 
 So said he one fair morning, and all day 
 
 His heart beat awfully against his side ; 
 And to his heart he inwardly did pray 
 
 For power to speak ; but stiU the ruddy tide 
 Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 
 
 Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 
 Yet brought him to the meekness of a child 
 Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! 
 
 D 49
 
 VII 
 
 PART II So once more he had wak'd and anguished 
 i A dreary night of love and misery, 
 
 If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 
 
 To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
 She saw^ it w^axing very pale and dead, 
 
 And straight all flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, 
 Lorenzo ! — here she ceased her timid quest, 
 But in her tone and look he read the rest. 
 
 VIII 
 
 O Isabella, I can half perceive 
 
 That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 
 
 If thou didst ever anything believe, 
 
 Believe how I love thee, believe how near 
 
 My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 
 
 Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 
 
 Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live 
 
 Another night, and not my passion shrive. 
 
 IX 
 
 Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold. 
 Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime. 
 
 And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 
 
 In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time. 
 
 So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold. 
 And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 
 
 Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 
 
 Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 
 
 50
 
 Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, PART II 
 
 Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart i 
 
 Only to meet again more close, and share 
 The inward fragrance of each other's heart. 
 
 She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
 Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; 
 
 He with light steps went up a western hill. 
 
 And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 
 
 XI 
 
 All close they met again, before the dusk 
 
 Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 
 All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
 
 Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 
 Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk. 
 
 Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 
 Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 
 Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 
 
 XII 
 
 Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 
 
 Too many tears for lovers have been shed. 
 Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
 
 Too much of pity after they are dead. 
 Too many dolefiil stories do we see. 
 
 Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 
 Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 
 Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 
 
 51
 
 XIII 
 
 PART II But, for the general award of love, 
 
 i The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 
 
 Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 
 
 And Isabella's was a great distress. 
 Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 
 
 Was not embalm'd. this truth is not the less — 
 Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers. 
 Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 
 
 XIV 
 
 With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt. 
 Enriched from ancestral merchandize, 
 
 And for them many a weary hand did swelt 
 In torched mines and noisy factories. 
 
 And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt 
 In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 
 
 Many all day in dazzling river stood, 
 
 To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 
 
 XV 
 
 For them the Ceylon diver held his breath. 
 And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 
 
 For them his ears gushed blood ; for them in death 
 The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 
 
 Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 
 A thousand men in troubles wide and dark : 
 
 Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel. 
 
 That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 
 
 52
 
 XVI 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts PART II 
 Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? i 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts 
 Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs ? 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because red-lin'd accounts 
 Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? 
 
 Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud, 
 
 Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? 
 
 XVII 
 
 Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 
 
 In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 
 As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, 
 
 Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; 
 The hawks of ship-mast forests — ;the untired 
 
 And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 
 Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away — 
 Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 How was it these same ledger-men could spy 
 
 Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? 
 How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 
 
 A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
 Into their vision covetous and sly ! 
 
 How could these money-bags see east and west ? 
 Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
 Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 
 
 53
 
 XIX 
 
 PART II O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 
 
 i Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, 
 
 And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 
 
 And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
 And of thy lihes, that do paler grow 
 
 Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, 
 For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
 The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 
 
 XX 
 
 Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
 Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
 
 There is no other crime, no mad assail 
 
 To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet 
 
 But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
 To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 
 
 To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 
 
 An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 
 
 XXI 
 
 These brethren having found by many signs 
 What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 
 
 And how she lov'd him too, each unconfines 
 His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad 
 
 That he, the servant of their trade designs, 
 Should in their sister's love be bHthe and glad. 
 
 When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees 
 
 To some high noble and his olive-trees. 
 
 54
 
 XXII 
 
 And many a jealous conference had they, PART II 
 
 And many times they bit their Hps alone, i 
 
 Before they fix'd upon a surest way 
 
 To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 
 
 And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
 
 Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ; 
 
 For they resolved in some forest dim 
 
 To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
 
 Into the sun-rise, o'er the balustrade 
 Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 
 
 Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 
 You seem there in the quiet of content, 
 
 Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 
 Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 
 Bestride your steed wliile cold is in the skies. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we mount 
 
 To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 
 Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
 
 His dewy rosary on the eglantine. 
 Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
 
 Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 
 And went in haste, to get in readiness, ' 
 With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 
 
 55
 
 XXV 
 
 PART II And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
 
 i Each third step did he pause, and hsten'd oft 
 
 If he could hear his lady's matin- song, 
 
 Or the Hght whisper of her footstep soft ; 
 And as he thus over his passion hung, 
 He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; 
 When, looking up, he saw her features bright 
 Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Love, Isabel ! said he, I ''was in pain 
 
 Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : 
 
 Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 
 I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
 
 Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we'll gain 
 Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. 
 
 Good bye ! I'll soon be back. — Good bye ! said she : 
 
 And as he went she chanted^merrily. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 So the two brothers and their murder'd man 
 Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 
 
 Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan 
 Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 
 
 Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
 The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 
 
 Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the water 
 
 Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 
 
 56
 
 XXVIII 
 
 There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, PART II 
 
 There in that forest did his great love cease ; i 
 
 Ah ! when a soul doth thus his freedom win, 
 It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
 
 As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin : 
 
 They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease 
 
 Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur. 
 
 Each richer by his being a murderer. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
 
 Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands. 
 Because of some great urgency and need 
 
 In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 
 Poor Girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed. 
 
 And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; 
 To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 
 And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 
 
 XXX 
 
 She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 
 
 Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
 And then, instead of love, O misery ! 
 
 She brooded o'er' the luxury alone : 
 His image in the 'dark she seemed to see, 
 
 And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
 Spreading her perfect arms upon the air. 
 And' on her couch low murmuring, Where ? O where f 
 
 57
 
 XXXI 
 
 PART II But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 
 i Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
 
 She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 
 
 Upon the time w^ith feverish unrest — 
 Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 
 
 Of higher occupants, a richer zest, 
 Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, 
 And sorrow^ for her love in travels rude. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
 The breath of Winter comes from far aw^ay, 
 
 And the sick west continually bereaves 
 Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 
 
 Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
 To make all bare before he dares to stray 
 
 From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 
 
 By gradual decay from beauty fell, 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
 She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale, 
 
 Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 
 
 Could keep him off so long ? They spake a tale 
 
 Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 
 
 Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; 
 
 And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 
 
 To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 
 
 58
 
 XXXIV 
 
 And she had died in drowsy ignorance, PART II 
 
 But for a thing more deadly dark than aU ; i 
 
 It came hke a fierce potion, drunk by chance, 
 Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall 
 
 For some few gasping moments ; like a lance, 
 Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 
 
 With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 
 
 Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom, 
 
 The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 
 Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 
 
 Had marr'd his glossy hair, which once could shoot 
 Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
 
 Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 
 From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 
 Had made a miry channel for his tears. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake ; 
 
 For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 
 To speak as when on earth it was awake, 
 
 And Isabella on its music hung : 
 Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 
 
 As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 
 And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song. 
 Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. 
 
 59
 
 XXXVII 
 
 PART II Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
 i With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 
 
 From the poor girl by magic of their light, 
 
 The while it did unthread the horrid woof 
 Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite 
 
 Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 
 In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell, 
 Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Saying moreover, Isabel, my sweet ! 
 
 Red whortle-berries droop above my head. 
 And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 
 
 Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
 Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 
 
 Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
 Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom. 
 And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 
 
 Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling 
 Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 
 
 While little sounds of life are round me knelling. 
 And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass. 
 
 And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, 
 Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me, 
 And thou art distant in Humanity. 
 60
 
 XL 
 
 I know what was, I feel full well what is, PART II 
 
 And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; i 
 
 Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 
 
 That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 
 
 A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
 
 To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ; 
 
 Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 
 
 A greater love through all my essence steal. 
 
 XLI 
 
 The Spirit mourn'd Adieu ! — dissolved, and left 
 
 The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
 As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft. 
 
 Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, 
 We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 
 
 And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 
 It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
 And in the dawn she started up awake ; 
 
 XLII 
 
 Ha ! ha ! said she, I knew not this hard Ufe, 
 
 I thought the worst was simple misery ; 
 I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 
 
 Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die ; 
 But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! 
 
 Sweet Spirit, thou has school'd my infancy : 
 I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 
 And greet thee morn and even in the skies. 
 
 6i
 
 XLIII 
 
 PART II When the full morning came, she had devised 
 i How she might secret to the forest hie ; 
 
 How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, 
 
 And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 
 How her short absence might be unsurmised. 
 
 While she the inmost of the dream would try. 
 Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse, 
 And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 See, as they creep along the river side, 
 
 How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 
 
 And, after looking round the champaign wide, 
 Shows her a knife. — ^What feverous hectic flame 
 
 Burns in thee, child ? — What good can thee betide. 
 That thou shouldst smile again ? — ^The evening came. 
 
 And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
 
 The flint was there, the berries at his head. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Who hath not loiter 'd in a green church-yard. 
 And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 
 
 Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, 
 To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole ; 
 
 Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd. 
 And filling it once more with human soul ? 
 
 Ah ! this is hohday to what was felt 
 
 When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 
 
 62
 
 XLVI 
 
 She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though PART II 
 
 One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; i 
 
 Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
 Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 
 
 Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, 
 Like to a native lily of the dell : 
 
 Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 
 
 To dig more fervently than misers can. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Soon she turn'd up a soil'd glove, whereon 
 
 Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies ; 
 She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, 
 
 And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
 And freezes utterly unto the bone 
 
 Those dainties made to still an infant's cries : 
 Then 'gan she work again ; nor stayed her care, 
 But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 
 
 Until her heart felt pity to the core 
 At sight of such a dismal labouring, 
 
 And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar. 
 And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 
 
 Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore ; 
 At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 
 And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 
 
 63
 
 XLIX 
 
 PART II Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 
 i Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? 
 
 O for the gentleness of old Romance, 
 
 The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
 Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, 
 
 For here, in truth, it does not well belong 
 To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, 
 And taste the music of that vision pale. 
 
 L 
 
 With duller steel than the Persean sword 
 They cut away no formless monster's head, 
 
 But one, whose gentleness did well accord 
 
 With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, 
 
 Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
 If Love impersonate was ever dead. 
 
 Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 
 
 'Twas love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned. 
 
 LI 
 
 In anxious secrecy they took it home. 
 And then the prize was all for Isabel : 
 
 She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, 
 And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
 
 Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
 With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, 
 
 She drench'd away : — and still she comb'd, and kept 
 
 Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept. 
 
 64
 
 LII 
 
 Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews PART II 
 
 Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, i 
 
 And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
 Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — 
 
 She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 
 A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by. 
 
 And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
 
 Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 
 
 LIII 
 
 And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun. 
 
 And she forgot the blue above the trees, 
 And she forgot the dells where waters run, 
 
 And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 
 She had no knowledge when the day was done, 
 
 And the new morn she saw not : but in peace 
 Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 
 And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 
 
 LIV 
 
 And so she ever fed it with thin tears. 
 
 Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 
 
 So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
 Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 
 
 Nurture besides, and life, from human fears. 
 
 From the fast mouldering head there shut from view : 
 
 So that the jewel, safely casketed. 
 
 Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 
 
 E 6$
 
 LV 
 
 PART II O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 
 
 i O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
 
 O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 
 
 Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
 Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; 
 
 Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, 
 And make a pale light in your cypress glooms. 
 Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 
 
 From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 
 
 Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. 
 And touch the strings into a mystery ; 
 
 Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
 For simple Isabel is soon to be 
 
 Among the dead : She withers, like a palm 
 
 Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 
 
 LVII 
 
 O leave the palm to wither by itself ; 
 
 Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! 
 It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 
 
 Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
 From her dead eyes : and many a curious elf, 
 
 Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower 
 Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
 By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 
 66
 
 LVIII 
 
 And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much PART II 
 
 Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, i 
 
 And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch ; 
 
 Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean : 
 
 They could not surely give belief, that such 
 A very nothing would have power to wean 
 
 Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 
 
 And even remembrance of her love's delay. 
 
 LIX 
 
 Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 
 This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain ; 
 
 For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 
 And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 
 
 And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 
 As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ; 
 
 And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
 
 Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 
 
 LX 
 
 Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 
 
 And to examine it in secret place : 
 The thing was vile with green and livid spot. 
 
 And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
 The guerdon of their murder they had got. 
 
 And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
 Never to turn again. — Away they went. 
 With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 
 
 67
 
 LXI 
 
 PART II O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 
 
 i O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
 
 O Echo, Echo, on some other day, 
 
 From isles, Lethean, sing to us — O sigh ! 
 Spirits of grief, sing not your Well-a-way ! 
 
 For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
 Will die a death too lone and incomplete. 
 Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 
 
 LXII 
 
 Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 
 
 Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; 
 And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
 
 Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 
 After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 
 
 To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
 'Twas hid from her : For cruel 'tis, said she. 
 To steal my Basil-pot away from me. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. 
 
 Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
 No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 
 
 In pity of her love, so overcast. 
 And a sad ditty of this story born [pass'd : 
 
 From mouth to mouth through all the country 
 Still is the burthen sung — O cruelty, 
 To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! 
 68
 
 SHED no tear ! O shed no tear ! PART II 
 
 The flower will bloom another year. ii 
 
 Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
 
 Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
 
 Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes ! 
 
 For I was taught in Paradise 
 
 To ease my breast of melodies — 
 
 Shed no tear. 
 
 Overhead ! look overhead ! 
 'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
 Look up, look up. I flutter now 
 On this flush pomegranate bough. 
 See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
 Ever cures the good man's ill. 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Adieu, Adieu ! — I fly, adieu, 
 I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
 
 Adieu, Adieu ! 
 
 69
 
 PART II UPON a Sabbath-day it fell ; 
 
 iii Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
 
 That call'd the folk to evening prayer ; 
 The city streets were clean and fair 
 From wholesome drench of April rains ; 
 And, on the western window panes, 
 The chilly sunset faintly told 
 Of unmatur'd green vallies cold, 
 Of the green thorny bloomless hedge. 
 Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, 
 Of primroses by shelter'd rills, 
 And daisies on the aguish hills. 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell : 
 The silent streets were crowded well 
 With staid and pious companies. 
 Warm from their fire-side orat'ries ; 
 And moving, with demurest air. 
 To even-song, and vesper prayer. 
 Each arched porch, and entry low. 
 Was filled with patient folk and slow, 
 With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, 
 While play'd the organ loud and sweet. 
 HThe bells had ceased, the prayers begun, 
 And Bertha had not yet half done 
 A curious volume, patch'd and torn, 
 That all day long, from earliest morn, 
 Had taken captive her two eyes. 
 Among its golden broideries ; 
 Perplex'd her with a thousand things, — 
 70
 
 The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, PART II 
 
 Martyrs in a fiery blaze, iii 
 
 Azure saints and silver rays, 
 
 Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
 
 Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, 
 
 The winged Lion of Saint Mark, 
 
 And the Covenantal Afk, 
 
 With its many mysteries. 
 
 Cherubim and golden mice. 
 
 HBertha was a maiden fair. 
 
 Dwelling in the old Minster-square ; 
 
 From her fire-side she could see. 
 
 Sidelong, its rich antiquity, 
 
 Far as the Bishop's garden-wall ; 
 
 Where sycamores and elm-trees taU, 
 
 Full-leaved, the forest had outstript, 
 
 By no sharp north-wand ever nipt, 
 
 So shelter'd by the mighty pile. 
 
 Bertha arose, and read awhile, 
 
 With forehead 'gainst the window-pane. 
 
 Again she try'd, and then again. 
 
 Until the dusk eve left her dark 
 
 Upon the legend of Saint Mark. 
 
 From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, 
 
 She lifted up her soft warm chin, 
 
 With aching neck and swimming eyes, 
 
 And daz'd with saintly imageries. 
 
 U All was gloom, and silent aU, 
 
 Save now and then the still foot-fall 
 
 71
 
 PART II Of one returning homewards late, 
 
 iii Past the echoing minster-gate. 
 
 The clamorous daws, that all the day- 
 Above tree-tops and towers play. 
 Pair by pair had gone to rest, 
 Each in its ancient belfry-nest, 
 Where asleep they fall betimes, 
 To music of the drowsy chimes. 
 ^ All was silent, all was gloom, 
 Abroad and in the homely room : 
 Down she sat, poor cheated soul ! 
 And struck a lamp from the dismal coal ; 
 Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair 
 And slant book, full against the glare. 
 Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 
 Hover'd about, a giant size, 
 On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, 
 The parrot's cage, and panel square ; 
 And the warm angled winter-screen, 
 On which were many monsters seen, 
 Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice. 
 And legless birds of Paradise, 
 Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 
 And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 
 Untired she read, her shadow still 
 Glower'd about, as it would fill 
 The room with wildest forms and shades^ 
 As though some ghostly queen of spades 
 Had come to mock behind her back, 
 72
 
 And dance, and ruffle her garments black. PART II 
 
 Untir'd she read the legend page, iii 
 
 Of holy Mark, from youth to age. 
 
 On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 
 
 Rejoicing for his many pains. 
 
 Sometimes the learned eremite. 
 
 With golden star, or dagger bright, 
 
 Referr'd to pious poesies 
 
 Written in smallest crow-quill size 
 
 Beneath the text ; and thus the rhyme 
 
 Was parcell'd out from time to time : 
 
 Gif ye wol stonden hardie wight — 
 
 Amiddes of the blackie night — 
 
 Righte in the churche porch, pardie 
 
 Ye wol behold a companie 
 
 Approchen thee full dolourouse 
 
 For sooth to sain from everich house 
 
 Be it in city or village 
 
 Wol come the Phantom and image 
 
 Of ilka gent and ilka carle 
 
 Whom colde Deathe hath in parle 
 
 And wol some day that very year 
 
 Touchen with foule-venime spear 
 
 And sadly do them all to die — 
 
 Hem all shalt thou see verihe — 
 
 And everichon shall by thee pass 
 
 All who must die that year, Alas. 
 
 Als writith he of swevenis, 
 
 Men han beforne they wake in bliss, 
 
 73
 
 PART II Whanne that hir friendes thinke hem bound 
 
 iii In crimped shroude farre under grounde ; 
 
 And how a litHng child mote be 
 A saint er its nativitie, 
 
 Gif that the modre (God her blesse !) 4 
 
 Kepen in soHtarinesse, 
 And kissen devoute the holy croce — 
 Of Goddis love, and Sathan's force, — 
 He writith ; and thinges many mo, M 
 
 Of swiche thinges I may not shew. 
 Bot I must tellen verilie 
 Somdel of Sainte Cicilie, 
 And chieflie what he auctorethe 
 Of Sainte Markis life and dethe : 
 f[ At length her constant eyelids come 
 Upon the fervent martyrdom ; 
 Then lastly to his holy shrine, 
 Exalt amid the tapers' shine 
 At Venice, — 
 
 I 
 
 74
 
 THE stranger lighted from his steed, PART II 
 
 And ere he spake a word, iv 
 
 He seized my lady's lily hand, 
 And kiss'd it all unheard. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the hall, 
 
 And ere he spake a word, 
 He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, 
 
 And kiss'd 'em all unheard. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the bower, — 
 
 But my lady first did go, — 
 Aye hand in hand into the bower, 
 
 Where my lord's roses blow. 
 
 My lady's maid had a silken scarf, 
 
 And a golden ring had she. 
 And a kiss from the stranger as off he went 
 
 Again on his fair palfrey. 
 
 75
 
 PART II ST AGNES' EVE— Ah, bitter chiU it was ! 
 V The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, 
 Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 
 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
 The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little door. 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 But no — already had his deathbell rung ; 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
 His was harsh penance on St Agnes' Eve : 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 
 
 76
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; PART II 
 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, v 
 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
 The carved angels, ever eagle-eyed, 
 Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests. 
 With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry. 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 Numerous as shadows haunting faerily 
 The brain new stuff'd in youth with triumphs gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
 On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care, 
 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 
 
 V
 
 PART II Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
 V The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 
 She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train, 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
 And back retired, not cool'd by high disdain, 
 But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 
 
 She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort, 
 Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She linger'd still. Meanwhile, across the moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things 
 have been. 
 
 78
 
 He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : PART II 
 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords v 
 
 Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel : 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy in that mansion foul, 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
 He startled her : but soon she knew his face. 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
 Saying, Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race. 
 
 Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
 Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
 More tame for his grey hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
 Flit like a ghost away. — Ah, Gossip dear, 
 We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
 And tell me how — Good Saints ! not here, not here ; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier. 
 
 79
 
 PART II He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 
 V Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume : 
 
 And as she mutter'd Well-a — well-a-day ! 
 He found him in a little moonlight room, 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 Now tell me where is Madeline, said he, 
 O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
 When they St Agnes' wool are weaving piously. 
 
 St Agnes ! Ah ! it is St Agnes' Eve — 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
 To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — St Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
 This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve. 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 Who keepeth clos'd a wondrous riddle-book. 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 80
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, PART II 
 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart v 
 
 Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame start ! 
 
 A cruel man and impious thou art : 
 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I deem 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem. 
 
 I will not harm her, by all saints I swear. 
 Quoth Porphyro : O may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
 And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
 wolves and bears. 
 
 Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
 Whose passing bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 Were never miss'd — ^Thus plaining, doth she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
 
 PART II Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 V Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty unespied, 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
 While legion'd faeries paced the coverlet, 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met. 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 
 
 It shall be as thou wishest, said the Dame : 
 All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in prayer 
 The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead. 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless moments slowly pass'd ; 
 The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste ; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 
 
 82
 
 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, PART II 
 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, v 
 
 When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 
 
 A casement high and triple-arch' d there was. 
 All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and branches of knot-grass, 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 
 
 83
 
 PART II Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 V And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint 
 
 Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
 Of all her wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
 Half-hidden, hke a mermaid in sea-weed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
 In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex' d she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
 Bhnded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
 
 84
 
 Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, PART II 
 
 Porphyxo gazed upon her empty dress, v 
 
 And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
 And breath'd himself : then from the closet crept. 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. 
 
 Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
 The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 
 
 85
 
 PART II These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
 V On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 
 Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
 And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake. 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache. 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
 In Provence call'd, La belle dame sans mercy : 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
 Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 
 
 86
 
 y 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, PART II 
 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
 There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 
 
 Ah, Porphyro ! said she, but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
 O leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 For if thou diest my Love, I know not where to go. 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
 Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet : meanwhile the frost-wind blows 
 Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet 
 Against the window-panes ; St Agnes' moon hath set. 
 
 87
 
 PART II 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
 V This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! 
 
 'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
 No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing. 
 
 My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil-dyed ? 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famish'd pilgrim, — sav'd by miracle. 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
 Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land. 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed : 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, PART II 
 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around, v 
 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears. 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door ; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide ; 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 
 
 And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
 Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
 For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 89
 
 PART II O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 vi Alone and palely loitering ? 
 
 The sedge has wither'd from the Lake, 
 And no birds sing ! 
 
 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 So haggard and so woe-begone ? 
 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 1 see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever dew ; 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 Fast withereth too. 
 
 I met a Lady in the Meads, 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child ; 
 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 I made a garland for her head. 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone 
 
 She look'd at me as she did love. 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed. 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long, 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 90
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet, PART II 
 
 And honey wild, and manna dew ; vi 
 
 And sure in language strange she said, 
 I love thee true. 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 
 With kisses four. 
 
 And there she lulled me asleep. 
 
 And there I dream'd — ^Ah ! Woe betide ! 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 
 On the cold hill side. 
 
 I saw pale Kings, and Princes too, 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 
 They cried La belle dame sans merci 
 
 Thee hath in thrall ! 
 
 I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, 
 
 With horrid warning gaped wide. 
 And I awoke and found me here, 
 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here. 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the Lake, 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 91
 
 I 
 
 PART II UPON a time, before the faery broods 
 
 vii Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, 
 
 Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 
 Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem. 
 Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 
 From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns, 
 The ever smitten Hermes empty left 
 His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : 
 From high Olympus had he stolen light, 
 On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 
 Of his great summoner, and made retreat 
 Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
 For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
 A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 
 At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured 
 Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored. 
 Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont. 
 And in those meads where sometime she might haunt. 
 Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 
 Though Fancy's casket were unlocked to choose. 
 Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 
 So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 
 Burned from his winged heels to either ear. 
 That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 
 Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, 
 Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 
 From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, 
 Breathing upon the flowers his passion new. 
 And wound with many a river to its head, 
 92
 
 To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed : PART II 
 
 In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, vii 
 
 And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
 
 Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
 
 Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 
 
 There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice. 
 
 Such as, once heard, in gentle heart destroys 
 
 All pain but pity ; thus the lone voice spake : 
 
 When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake ! 
 
 When move in a sweet body fit for hfe, 
 
 And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 
 
 Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! 
 
 The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
 
 Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
 
 The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
 
 Until he found a palpitating snake. 
 
 Bright and cirque-couchant, in a dusty brake. 
 
 ^ She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue. 
 
 Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
 
 Striped hke a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
 
 Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd ; 
 
 And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, 
 
 Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
 
 Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
 
 So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, 
 
 She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf. 
 
 Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 
 
 Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
 
 Sprinkled vdth stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 
 
 93
 
 PART II Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter sweet ! 
 
 vii She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete : 
 
 And for her eyes : what could such eyes do there 
 But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair ? 
 As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 
 Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
 Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake, 
 And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
 Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey. 
 UFair Hermes, crown'd with feathers, fluttering light, 
 I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
 I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 
 Among the Gods, upon Olympus old. 
 The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
 The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chaunting clear, 
 Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, [moan. 
 
 Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious 
 I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, 
 Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks. 
 And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, 
 Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! 
 Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid ? 
 Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
 His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
 Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired ! 
 Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes, 
 Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, 
 Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
 Where she doth breathe ! Bright planet, thou hast said, 
 
 94
 
 Return'd the snake, but seal with oaths, fair God ! PART II 
 
 I swear, said Hermes, by my serpent rod, vii 
 
 And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! 
 
 Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown. 
 
 Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
 
 Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, 
 
 Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
 
 About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
 
 She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 
 
 Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet ; 
 
 From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches gree^. 
 
 She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : 
 
 And by my power is her beauty veil'd 
 
 To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd 
 
 By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, 
 
 Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
 
 Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
 
 Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
 
 I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
 
 Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 
 
 Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
 
 To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
 
 Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone. 
 
 If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon ! 
 
 Then, once again, the charmed God began 
 
 An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 
 
 Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
 
 Ravish'd, she lifted her Circean head, 
 
 Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said, 
 
 95
 
 PART II I was a woman, let me have once more 
 vii A woman's shape, and charming as before. 
 
 I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 
 Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. 
 Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, 
 And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now. 
 The God on half-shut feathers sank serene. 
 She breath'd upon his eyes, and swift was seen 
 Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. 
 It was no dream ; or say a dream it was. 
 Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 
 Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
 One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem 
 Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd ; 
 Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 
 To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm. 
 Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. 
 So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 
 Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 
 And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, 
 Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain 
 Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 
 That faints into itself at evening hour : 
 But the God fostering her chilled hand, 
 She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland. 
 And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 
 Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 
 Into the green-recessed woods they flew ; 
 Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. ' 
 
 96
 
 m Left to herself, the serpent now began PART II 
 
 To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran, vii 
 
 Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, 
 
 Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
 
 Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear. 
 
 Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashcs all sear, 
 
 Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear 
 
 The colours all inflam'd throughout her train, 
 
 She writh'd about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 
 
 A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
 
 Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
 
 And, as the lava ravishes the mead, 
 
 Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede ; 
 
 Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars. 
 
 Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 
 
 So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
 
 Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, 
 
 And rubious-argent : of all these bereft. 
 
 Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
 
 Still shone her crown : that vanish'd, also she 
 
 Melted and disappear'd as suddenly ; 
 
 And in the air, her new voice luting soft, 
 
 Cried, Lycius ! gentle Lycius ! — Borne aloft 
 
 With the bright mists above the mountains hoar 
 
 These words dissolv'd : Crete's forests heard no more. 
 
 II 
 
 WHITHER fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
 
 G 97
 
 PART II A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
 vii She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
 
 Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore ; 
 
 And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
 
 The rugged founts of the Peraean rills, 
 
 And of that other ridge whose barren back 
 
 Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack. 
 
 South-westward to Cleone. There she stood. 
 
 About a young bird's flutter from a wood. 
 
 Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
 
 By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
 
 To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
 
 While her robes flaunted with the daft"odils. 
 
 ^ Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
 
 More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
 
 Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flower'd lea 
 
 Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
 
 A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
 
 Of love deep learned to the red heart's core : 
 
 Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
 
 To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ; 
 
 Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
 
 Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
 
 Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
 
 Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ; 
 
 As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
 
 Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
 
 And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 
 
 ^ Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
 
 98
 
 By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; PART 1 1 
 
 But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse vii 
 
 And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, 
 
 Of all she list, strange or magnificent : 
 
 How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; 
 
 Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
 
 Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair 
 
 Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; 
 
 Or where God Bacchus drains his cup divine, 
 
 Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 
 
 Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
 
 Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
 
 And sometimes into cities she would send 
 
 Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 
 
 And once, while among mortals dreaming thus. 
 
 She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
 
 Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
 
 Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, 
 
 And fell into a swooning love of him. 
 
 Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
 
 He would return that way, as well she knew. 
 
 To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 
 
 The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
 
 Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow 
 
 In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
 
 Fresh anchor'd ; whither he had been awhile 
 
 To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
 
 Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. 
 
 Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; 
 
 99
 
 PART II For by some freakful chance he made retire 
 vii From his companions, and set forth to walk, 
 
 Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : 
 Over the solitary hills he fared. 
 Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appear'd 
 His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
 In the calm'd twilight of Platonic 'shades. 
 Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — 
 Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
 His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
 So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen. 
 She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries. 
 His mind wrapp'd like 'his mantle, while her eyes 
 FoUow'd his steps, and her neck regal white 
 Turn'd — syllabling thus : Ah, Lycius bright, 
 And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
 Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown. 
 He did : not with cold wonder fearingly, 
 But Orpheus-Hke at an Eurydice ; 
 For so delicious were the words she sung. 
 It seem'd he had lov'd them a whole summer long. 
 And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up. 
 Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. 
 And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 
 Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid 
 Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 
 Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure : 
 Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see 
 Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
 
 100
 
 For pity do not this sad heart behe — PART II 
 
 Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. vii 
 
 Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 
 
 To thy far w^ishes vv^ill thy streams obey : 
 
 Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 
 
 Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 
 
 Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
 
 Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
 
 Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 
 
 So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
 
 Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade 
 
 Thy memory will waste me to a shade : 
 
 For pity do not melt ! — If I should stay, 
 
 Said Lamia, here, upon this floor of |clay, 
 
 And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, 
 
 What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
 
 To duU the nice remembrance of my home ? 
 
 Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 
 
 Over these hills and vales, where no joy is. 
 
 Empty of immortality and bHss ! 
 
 Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
 
 That finer spirits cannot breathe below 
 
 In human climes, and live : Alas ! poor youth, 
 
 What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
 
 My essence ? What serener palaces, 
 
 Where I may all my many senses please, 
 
 And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ? 
 
 It cannot be — Adieu ! So said, she rose 
 
 Tiptoe, with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 
 
 lOI
 
 PART II The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
 
 vii Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
 
 The cruel lady, without any show 
 Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, 
 But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 
 With brighter eyes and slow amenity. 
 Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
 The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
 And as he from one trance was wakening 
 Into another, she began to sing, 
 Happy in beauty, life, and love, and everything, 
 A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, [fires. 
 
 While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting 
 And then she whispered in such trembling tone, 
 As those who, safe together met alone 
 For the first time through many anguish'd days, 
 Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
 His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt. 
 For that she was a woman, and without 
 Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
 Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains 
 Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
 And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 
 Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. 
 She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 
 Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
 Without the aid of love ; yet in content. 
 Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
 Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 
 
 102
 
 At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd PARI' It 
 
 Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd vii 
 
 Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before 
 
 The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more, 
 
 But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ? 
 
 Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
 
 To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 
 
 Then from amaze into delight he fell 
 
 To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; 
 
 And every word she spake entic'd him on 
 
 To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
 
 Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
 
 Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
 
 There is not such a treat among them all, 
 
 Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 
 
 As a real woman, lineal indeed 
 
 From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
 
 Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright, 
 
 That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 
 
 So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
 
 More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 
 
 With no more awe than what her beauty gave, 
 
 That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. 
 
 Lycius to all made eloquent reply. 
 
 Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh ; 
 
 And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, 
 
 If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet. 
 
 The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
 
 Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
 
 103
 
 PART II To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
 vii By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized. 
 
 They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how, 
 
 So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 
 
 m As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 
 
 Throughout her palaces imperial. 
 
 And aU her populous streets and temples lewd, 
 
 Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd, 
 
 To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
 
 Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours, 
 
 Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, 
 
 Companion'd or alone ; while many a light 
 
 Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals. 
 
 And threw their moving shadows on the walls. 
 
 Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade 
 
 Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. 
 
 ^ Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear. 
 
 Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near 
 
 With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald 
 
 Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown : [crown, 
 
 Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past. 
 
 Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
 
 While hurried Lamia trembled : Ah, said he, 
 
 Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 
 
 Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ? 
 
 I'm wearied, said fair Lamia : tell me who 
 
 Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
 
 His features : — Lycius ! wherefore did you blind 
 
 Yourself from his quick eyes ? Lycius replied, 
 
 104
 
 'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide PART II 
 
 And good instructor : but to-night he seems rii 
 
 The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams. 
 
 ^While yet he spake they had arrived before 
 
 A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
 
 Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 
 
 Reflected in the slabbed steps below, 
 
 Mild as a star in water ; for so new. 
 
 And so unsullied was the marble hue, 
 
 So through the crystal polish, hquid fine. 
 
 Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
 
 Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds yEolian 
 
 Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span 
 
 Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown 
 
 Some time to any, but those two alone. 
 
 And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 
 
 Were seen about the markets : none knew where 
 
 They could inhabit : the most curious 
 
 Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house : 
 
 And but the flitter-winged verse must tell. 
 
 For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel, 
 
 'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus. 
 
 Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 
 
 Ill 
 
 LOVE in a hut, with water and a crust. 
 Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 
 Love in a palace is perhaps at last 
 
 105
 
 PART II More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 
 vii That is a doubtful tale from faery land, 
 
 Hard for the non-elect to understand. 
 Had Lycius liv'd to hand his story down, 
 He might have given the moral a fresh frown. 
 Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bliss 
 To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. 
 Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare, 
 Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
 Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, 
 Above the lintel of their chamber door. 
 And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 
 f[ For all this came a ruin : side by side 
 They were enthroned, in the even tide. 
 Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
 Whose airy texture, from a golden string, 
 Floated into the room, and let appear 
 Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear, 
 Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed. 
 Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed. 
 Saving a tithe which love still open kept, 
 That they might see each other while they almost slept ; 
 When from the slope side of a suburb hill, 
 Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
 Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled. 
 But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
 For the first time, since first he harbour'd in 
 That purple-lined palace of sweet sin. 
 His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
 io6
 
 Into the noisy world almost forsworn. PART II 
 
 The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, vii 
 
 Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
 
 Of something more, more than her empery 
 
 Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 
 
 Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
 
 That but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell. 
 
 Why do you sigh, fair creature ? whisper'd he ; 
 
 Why do you think ? return'd she tenderly : 
 
 You have deserted me ; — where am I now ? 
 
 Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow : 
 
 No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and I go 
 
 From your breast houseless : aye, it must be so. 
 
 He answer'd, bending to her open eyes. 
 
 Where he was mirror'd small in paradise. 
 
 My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 
 
 Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 
 
 While I am striving how to fill my heart 
 
 With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 
 
 How to entangle, trammel up, and snare 
 
 Your soul in mine and labyrinth you there. 
 
 Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 
 
 Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 
 
 My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! 
 
 What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
 
 May be confounded and abash'd withal. 
 
 But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical. 
 
 And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 
 
 Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 
 
 107
 
 PART II Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, 
 
 vii While through the thronged streets your bridal car 
 
 Wheels round its dazzling spokes. — The lady's cheek 
 Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, 
 Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
 Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 
 Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung. 
 To change his purpose. He thereat was stung. 
 Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 
 Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 
 Besides, for all his love, in self despite, 
 Against his better self, he took delight 
 Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 
 His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 
 Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 
 In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. 
 Fine was the mitigated fury, like 
 Apollo's presence when in act to strike 
 The serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she 
 Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, 
 And, aU subdued, consented to the hour 
 When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 
 Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 
 Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth, 
 I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
 Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
 As still I do. Hast any mortal name. 
 Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
 Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, 
 1 08
 
 To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ? PART II 
 
 I have no friends, said Lamia, no, not one ; vii 
 
 My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : 
 
 My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
 
 Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns. 
 
 Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, 
 
 And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
 
 Even as you list invite your many guests ; 
 
 But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
 
 With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
 
 Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid. 
 
 Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank, 
 
 Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shiank, 
 
 Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
 
 Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 
 
 H It was the custom then to bring away 
 
 The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
 
 Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
 
 By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, 
 
 With other pageants : but this fair unknown 
 
 Had not a friend. So being left alone, 
 
 (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin) 
 
 And knowing surely she could never win 
 
 His foolish heart from its mad pompousness. 
 
 She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
 
 The misery in fit magnificence. 
 
 She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
 
 Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
 
 About the halls, and to and from the doors, 
 
 109
 
 PART II There was a noise of wings, till in short space 
 
 vii The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched 
 
 A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone [grace. 
 
 Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
 Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. 
 Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
 Of palm and plantain, met from either side, 
 High in the midst, in honour of the bride : 
 Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 
 From either side their stems branch'd one to one 
 All down the aisled place ; and beneath all [wall. 
 
 There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to 
 So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
 Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest, 
 Silently paced about, and as she went, 
 In pale contented sort of discontent, 
 Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
 The fretted splendour of each nook and niche. 
 Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first. 
 Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
 Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. 
 And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
 Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
 And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd, and still, 
 Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
 When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude, 
 ^ The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. 
 O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
 The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours, 
 no
 
 And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? PART II 
 
 The herd approach'd ; each guest, with busy brain, vii 
 
 Arriving at the portal, gazed amain, 
 
 And enter'd marveHng : for they knew the street, 
 
 Remember'd it from childhood all complete 
 
 Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
 
 That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; 
 
 So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen ; 
 
 Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, 
 
 And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere ; 
 
 'Twas ApoUonius : something too he laugh'd, 
 
 As though some knotty problem, that had daft 
 
 His patient thought, had now begun to thaw. 
 
 And solve and melt : — 'tw^as just as he foresaw. 
 
 IT He met within the murmurous vestibule 
 
 His young disciple. 'Tis no common rule, 
 
 Lycius, said he, for uninvited guest 
 
 To force himself upon you, and infest 
 
 With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
 
 Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong. 
 
 And you forgive me. Lycius blush'd, and led 
 
 The old man through the inner doors broad-spread ; 
 
 With reconciling words and courteous mien 
 
 Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 
 
 U Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
 
 Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume : 
 
 Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
 
 A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, 
 
 Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
 
 III
 
 PART II Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft 
 vii Wool-woofed carpets : fiity wreaths of smoke 
 
 From fifty censers their light voyage took 
 To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose 
 Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. 
 Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered, 
 High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
 On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
 Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
 Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
 Come from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
 Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood, 
 Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 
 ^ When in an antechamber every guest 
 Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd. 
 By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet, 
 And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
 Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
 In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
 Around the silken couches, wondering [spring. 
 
 Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could 
 m Soft went the music the soft air along, 
 While fluent Greek a vowel'd undersong 
 Kept up among the guests, discoursing low 
 At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; 
 But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains, 
 Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
 Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, 
 The space, the splendour of the draperies, 
 
 112
 
 The roof of awful richness, nectar ous cheer, PART II 
 
 Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, vii 
 
 Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed, 
 
 And every soul from human trammels freed. 
 
 No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine, 
 
 Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 
 
 Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height , 
 
 Flush'dwere their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright : 
 
 Garlands of every green and every scent 
 
 From vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch-rent, 
 
 In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought, 
 
 High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
 
 Of every guest ; that each, as he did please, 
 
 Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 
 
 U What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 
 
 What for the sage, old Apollonius ? 
 
 Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
 
 The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
 
 And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
 
 The thyrsus, that his watching eye may swim 
 
 Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage. 
 
 Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
 
 War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
 
 At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
 
 There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
 
 We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
 
 In the dull catalogue of common things. 
 
 Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings. 
 
 Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
 
 H 113
 
 PART II Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine, 
 vii Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
 
 The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. 
 
 f[ By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place. 
 
 Scarce saw in all the room another face, 
 
 Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took 
 
 Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
 
 'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
 
 From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance. 
 
 And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
 
 Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir. 
 
 Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, [pride. 
 
 Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet 
 
 Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch, 
 
 As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
 
 'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
 
 Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
 
 Of an unnatural heat shot into his heart. 
 
 Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou start ? 
 
 Know'st thou that man ? Poor Lamia answer'd not. 
 
 He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
 
 Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
 
 More, more he gazed : his human senses reel : 
 
 Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ; 
 
 There was no recognition in those orbs. 
 
 Lamia ! he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
 
 The many heard, and the loud revelry 
 
 Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; 
 
 The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
 
 114
 
 By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ; PART II 
 
 A deadly silence step by step increased vii 
 
 Until it seem'd a horrid presence there, 
 
 And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
 
 Lamia ! he shriek'd ; and nothing but the shriek 
 
 With its sad echo did the silence break. 
 
 Begone, foul dream ! he cried, gazing again 
 
 In the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
 
 Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
 
 Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume 
 
 The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; 
 
 Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 
 
 Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man ! 
 
 Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous ban 
 
 Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 
 
 Here represent their shadowy presences, 
 
 May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 
 
 Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn, 
 
 In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 
 
 Of conscience, for their long offended might, 
 
 For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries, 
 
 Unlav/ful magic, and enticing lies. 
 
 Corinthians ! look upon that grey-beard wretch ! 
 
 Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch 
 
 Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 
 
 My sweet bride vnthers at their potency. 
 
 Fool ! said the sophist, in an under-tone 
 
 Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 
 
 From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost.
 
 PART II He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 
 
 vii Fool ! Fool ! repeated he, while his eyes still 
 
 Relented not, nor mov'd ; from every iU 
 Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 
 And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey ? 
 Then Lamia breathed death breath ; the sophist's eye, 
 Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 
 Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well 
 As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
 Motion'd him to be silent ; vainly so, 
 He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
 A Serpent ! echoed he ; no sooner said, 
 Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 
 And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 
 As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 
 On the high couch he lay ! his friends came round — 
 Supported him — no pulse, or breath they found, 
 And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. 
 
 ii6
 
 PART III. SONNETS
 
 PART III MANY the wonders I this day have seen : 
 i. ii The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
 
 That fill'd the eyes of morn ; the laurell'd peers 
 Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; 
 The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, 
 
 Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, 
 
 Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 
 Must think on what will be, and what has been. 
 E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, 
 
 Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 
 So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, 
 
 And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. 
 But what, without the social thought of thee. 
 Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 
 
 SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh laid coal 
 And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 
 Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
 
 A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
 
 And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, 
 Your eyes are lix'd, as in poetic sleep, 
 Upon the lore so voluble and deep, 
 
 That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
 
 This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice 
 That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. 
 
 Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 
 May we together pass, and calmly try 
 
 What are this world's true joys — ere the great voice 
 From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly. 
 
 ii8
 
 O SOLITUDE ! if I must with thee dwell, PART III 
 
 Let it not be among the jumbled heap iii. iv 
 
 Of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep, — 
 
 Nature's observatory — whence the dell, 
 
 Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell. 
 May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd,where the deer's swift leap 
 
 Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 
 
 But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee. 
 Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind. 
 Whose words are images of thoughts refined. 
 
 Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be 
 Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 
 
 When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 
 
 KEEN, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there 
 
 Among the bushes, half leafless and dry ; 
 
 The stars look very cold about the sky. 
 And I have many miles on foot to fare ; 
 Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 
 
 Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 
 
 Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. 
 Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : 
 For I am brimfull of the friendliness 
 
 That in a little cottage I have found ; 
 Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 
 
 And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd. 
 Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. 
 
 And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 
 
 119
 
 PART III HOW many bards gild the lapses of time ! 
 V. vi A few of them have ever been the food 
 
 Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
 
 Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
 
 And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, 
 
 These will in throngs before my mind intrude : 
 But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
 
 Do they occasion ; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
 
 So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store ; 
 The songs of birds — the whispering of the leaves — 
 The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 
 
 With solemn sound, — and thousand others more, 
 That distance of recognizance bereaves. 
 
 Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 
 
 THE poetry of earth is never dead : 
 
 When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 
 
 That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
 In summer luxury, — he has never done 
 With his delights, for when tired out with fun 
 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 
 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 
 And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 
 
 120
 
 TO one who has been long in city pent, PART III 
 
 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair vii. viii 
 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 
 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 O GOLDEN-TONGUED Romance with serene lute ! 
 
 Fair plumed Syren ! Queen of far away ! 
 
 Leave melodizing on this wintry day, 
 Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute : 
 Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute. 
 
 Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay, 
 
 Must I burn through ; once more humbly assay 
 The bitter sweet of this Shakespearian fruit. 
 Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, 
 
 Begetters of our deep eternal theme. 
 When through the old oak forest I am gone, 
 
 Let me not wander in a barren dream. 
 But, when I am consumed in the Fire, 
 Give me new Phoenix-wings to fly at my desire. 
 
 121
 
 PART III GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning ; 
 ix. X He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, 
 
 Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 
 Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 
 He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 
 
 The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 
 
 And lo ! — ^whose steadfastness would never take 
 A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
 And other spirits there are standing apart 
 
 Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 
 These, these will give the world another heart, 
 
 And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
 Of mighty workings ? 
 
 Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 
 
 WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
 Before high-piled books, in charactery. 
 
 Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd grain ; 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; 
 And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 
 
 That I shall never look upon thee more, 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 
 Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think. 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 122
 
 TIME'S sea hath been five years at its slow ebb ; PART III 
 
 Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand ; xi. xii 
 
 Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, 
 
 And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. 
 And yet I never look on midnight sky, 
 
 But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light ; 
 I cannot look upon the rose's dye, 
 
 But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight ; 
 I cannot look on any budding flower, 
 
 But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips. 
 And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour 
 
 Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thou shalt eclipse 
 Every delight with sweet remembering, 
 And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 
 
 I CRY your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love ! 
 
 Merciful love that tantalises not, 
 One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, 
 
 Unmask'd, and being seen — without a blot ! 
 O ! let me have thee whole, — all — al] — be mine ! 
 
 That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest 
 Of love, your kiss, — those hands, those eyes divine. 
 
 That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast, — 
 Yourself — your soul — in pity give me all, 
 
 Withhold no atom's atom or I die, 
 Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall, 
 
 Forget, in the mist of idle misery, 
 Life's purposes, — the palate of my mind 
 Losing its gust, and my ambition blind ! 
 
 123
 
 PART III O SOFT enbalmer of the stiU midnight ! 
 xiii. xiv Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, 
 
 Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, 
 Enshaded in forgetfulness divine ; 
 
 soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, 
 
 In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes. 
 Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws 
 
 Around my bed its lulling charities ; 
 
 Then save me, or the passed day will shine 
 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes ; 
 
 Save me from curious Conscience, that still hoards 
 Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole ; 
 
 Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, 
 And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul. 
 
 AS Hermes once took to his feathers light, 
 
 When luUed Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, 
 So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright 
 
 So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft 
 The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes, 
 
 And, seeing it asleep, so fled away ; 
 Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, 
 
 Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved a day. 
 But to that second circle of sad Hell, 
 
 Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw 
 Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell 
 
 Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw. 
 Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form 
 
 1 floated with, about that melancholy storm. 
 124
 
 COME hither all sweet maidens soberly, PART III 
 
 Dovm-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light xv. xvi 
 
 Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white. 
 And meekly let your fair hands joined be, 
 As if so gentle that ye could not see, 
 
 Untouch'd. a victim of your beauty bright, 
 
 Sinking away to his young spirit's night. 
 Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea : 
 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death ; 
 
 Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips 
 For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. 
 
 horrid dream ! see how his body dips. 
 Dead heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile : 
 He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! 
 
 WHY did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell : 
 
 No God, no Demon of severe response. 
 Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. 
 
 Then to my human heart I turn at once. 
 Heart ! Thou and I are here, sad and alone ; 
 
 1 say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! 
 O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan. 
 
 To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. 
 Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's lease, 
 
 My fancy to its utmost bhsses spreads ; 
 Yet would I on this very midnight cease. 
 
 And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds ; 
 Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed. 
 But Death intenser — Death is Life's high meed. 
 
 125
 
 PART III AFTER dark vapors have oppress'd our plains 
 xvii. xviii For a long dreary season, comes a day 
 
 Born of the gentle South, and clears aw^ay 
 From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 
 The anxious month, relieved of its pains, 
 
 Takes as a long lost right the feel of May ; 
 
 The eyelids w^ith the passing coolness play, 
 Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. 
 And calmest thoughts come round us — as of leaves 
 
 Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — autumn suns 
 Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 
 Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's breath, — 
 
 The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs, — 
 A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. 
 
 FOUR seasons fill the measure of the year ; 
 
 There are four seasons in the mind of man : 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
 
 Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 
 Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 
 He furleth close ; contented so to look 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 
 126 
 
 )
 
 PART IV. ODES (WITH INCLUDED 
 ROUNDELAYS)
 
 PART IV MOTHER of Hermes ! and stiU youthful Maia ! 
 
 May I sing to thee 
 As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae ? 
 
 Or may I woo thee 
 In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles 
 Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, 
 By bards who died content on pleasant sward, 
 Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? 
 O, give me their old vigour, and unheard 
 Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 
 
 Of heaven and few ears, 
 Rounded by thee, my song should die away 
 
 Content as theirs. 
 Rich in the simple worship of a day. 
 
 128
 
 I 
 
 O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang PART IV 
 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth ^i 
 
 Eternal whispers, glooms^ the birth, life, death ! 
 
 Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
 
 Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
 
 And through whole solemn hours dost sit,'and hearken 
 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
 
 In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds '^" "^ 
 
 The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; 
 
 Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
 
 Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now. 
 
 By thy love's milky brow ! 
 
 By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
 
 Hear us, great Pan ! 
 
 II 
 
 O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
 Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
 What time thou wanderest at eventide 
 Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
 Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
 Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom 
 Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow girted bees 
 Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
 Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; 
 The chuckling Hnnet its five young unborn, 
 To sing for thee ; low creeping strawberries 
 Their summer coolness ; pent up butterflies 
 
 I 129
 
 PART IV Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
 ii All its completions — be quickly near, 
 
 By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
 O forester divine ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
 For willing service ; whether to surprise 
 The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit ; 
 Or upward ragged precipices flit 
 To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
 Or by mysterious enticement draw 
 Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again ; 
 Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
 And gather up all fancifullest shells 
 For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
 And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
 Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
 The while they pelt each other on the crown 
 With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown — 
 By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
 Hear us, O satyr king ! 
 
 IV 
 
 O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears 
 While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
 A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn. 
 When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
 Anger our huntsmen : Breather round our farms, 
 130
 
 To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : PART IV 
 
 Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, ii 
 
 That come a swooning over hollow grounds, 
 
 And wither drearily on barren moors : 
 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 
 Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
 
 Great son of Dryope, 
 
 The many that are come to pay their vows 
 
 With leaves about their brows ! 
 
 V 
 
 Be still the unimaginable lodge 
 
 For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
 
 Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
 
 Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven, 
 
 That spreading in this dull and clodded earth 
 
 Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 
 
 Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
 
 A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
 
 An element filling the space between ; 
 
 An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 
 
 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
 
 And giving out a shout most heaven rending, 
 
 Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, 
 
 Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 
 
 131
 
 PART IV O SORROW, 
 
 iii Why dost borrow 
 
 The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? 
 To give maiden blushes 
 To the M^hite rose bushes ? 
 Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 O Sorrow, 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? 
 
 To give the glow-worm light ? 
 
 Or, on a moonless night, 
 To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 
 
 O Sorrow, 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The meUow ditties from a mourning tongue ? 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 
 Unto the nightingale, 
 That thou mayst listen the cold dews among r 
 
 O SorroW; 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 
 Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? 
 A lover would not tread 
 A cowslip on the head, 
 
 Though he should dance from eve till peep of day ; 
 Nor any drooping flower 
 Held sacred for thy bower, 
 
 132
 
 Wherever he may sport himself and play. PART IV 
 
 iii 
 
 To Sorrow, 
 
 I bade good-morrow, 
 And thought to leave her far away behind ; 
 
 But cheerly, cheerly. 
 
 She loves me dearly i; 
 She is so constant to me, and so kind : 
 
 I would deceive her, 
 
 And so leave her, 
 But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 
 
 Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, 
 I sat a weeping : in the whole world wide 
 There was no one to ask me why I wept ; 
 
 And!so I kept 
 Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 
 
 Cold as my fears. 
 
 Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, 
 I sat a weeping : what enamour'd bride^ 
 Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 
 
 But hides and shrouds 
 Beneath dark palm trees by a river side ? 
 
 And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
 There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
 Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 
 'Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
 
 133
 
 PART IV The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
 iii From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 
 
 ' Twas Bacchus and his kin ! 
 Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
 Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
 All madly dancing through the pleasant valley. 
 
 To scare thee. Melancholy ! 
 O then, O then, thou wast a simple name ! 
 And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
 By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, 
 Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : 
 
 I rush'd into the folly ! 
 
 Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 
 Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood. 
 
 With sidelong laughing ; 
 And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
 His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 
 
 For Venus' pearly bite : 
 And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
 Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 
 
 Tipsily quaffing. 
 
 Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! whence came ye ! 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 Why have ye left your bowers desolate. 
 
 Your lutes, and gentler fate ? 
 We foUow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 
 
 A conquering !
 
 Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill betide, PART IV 
 
 We dance before him, thorough kingdoms wide ! iii 
 
 Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
 To our wild minstrelsy ! 
 
 Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye ! 
 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 
 Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left { 
 
 Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? 
 For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
 For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 
 
 And cold mushrooms ; 
 For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
 Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth ! 
 Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
 
 To our mad minstrelsy ! 
 
 Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
 And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent. 
 Onward the tiger and the leopard pants. 
 
 With Asian elephants : 
 Onward these myriads — with song and dance. 
 With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance. 
 Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
 Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
 Plump infant laughters mimicking the coil 
 Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
 With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 
 
 Nor care for wind and tide. 
 
 135
 
 PART IV Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 
 iii From rear to van they scour about the plains ; 
 
 A three days' journey in a moment done : 
 And always, at the rising of the sun, 
 About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
 On spleenful unicorn. 
 
 I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 
 
 Before the vine-wreath crown ! 
 I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 
 
 To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
 I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
 
 Old Tartary the fierce ! 
 The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail, 
 And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
 Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans. 
 
 And all his priesthood moans ; 
 Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
 Into these regions came I, following him, 
 Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
 To stray away into these forests drear 
 
 Alone, without a peer : 
 And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 
 
 Young stranger ! 
 
 I've been a ranger 
 In search of pleasure throughout every clime : 
 
 Alas ! 'tis not for me : 
 
 Bewitch'd I sure must be, 
 136
 
 To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. PART IV 
 
 iii 
 
 Come then, Sorrow ! 
 
 Sweetest Sorrow ! 
 Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 
 
 I thought to leave thee 
 
 And deceive thee, 
 But now of all the world I love thee best. 
 
 There is not one. 
 
 No, no, not one 
 But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 
 
 Thou art her mother, 
 
 And her brother. 
 Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. 
 
 137
 
 I 
 
 PART IV MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 iv My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
 But being too happy in thy happiness. 
 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 II 
 
 O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
 
 Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 
 
 III 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
 
 138
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; PART IV 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow iv 
 
 And leaden-eyed despairs, 
 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 IV 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 
 
 V 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child, 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
 
 139
 
 VI 
 
 PART IV Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
 
 iv I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 VII 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 
 140
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, PART IV 
 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep iv 
 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 
 
 141
 
 I 
 
 PART IV THOU still unravlsh'd bride of quietness, 
 V Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? 
 What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
 What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 
 
 II 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
 
 More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
 
 142
 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, PART IV 
 
 For ever panting, and for ever young ; y 
 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 
 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 IV 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
 What little town by river or sea-shore. 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 V 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste. 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
 Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 143
 
 PART IV O GODDESS ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
 vi By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
 
 And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
 
 Even into thine own soft-conched ear : 
 Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see ^ 
 
 The winged Psyche with awaken' d eyes ? * 
 
 I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly. 
 
 And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. 
 Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
 In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
 A brooklet, scarce espied : 
 
 II 
 
 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed. 
 
 Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
 They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 
 
 Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; 
 
 Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu. 
 As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
 And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
 
 At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 
 The winged boy I knew ; 
 
 But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? 
 His Psyche true ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 O latest born and loveliest vision far 
 Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
 144
 
 Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, PART IV 
 
 Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; vi 
 
 Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none 
 Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 
 
 Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 
 Upon the midnight hours ; 
 
 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
 From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
 
 No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 
 
 IV 
 
 brightest ! though too late for antique vows. 
 Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
 
 When holy were the haunted forest boughs. 
 
 Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 
 Yet even in these days so far retired 
 
 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
 
 Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
 
 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd. 
 So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
 
 Upon the midnight hours ; 
 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 
 
 From swinged censer teeming ; 
 Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 
 
 V 
 
 Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
 
 K 145
 
 PART IV In some untrodden region of my mind, 
 
 vi Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant 
 
 Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : [pain, 
 Far, far around shall those dark cluster'd trees 
 
 Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 
 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 
 
 The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep ; 
 And in the midst of this wide quietness 
 A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
 With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 
 
 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. 
 With aU the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
 
 Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same, 
 And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
 
 That shadowy thought can win, 
 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 
 
 To let the warm Love in ! 
 
 146
 
 EVER let the Fancy roam, PART IV 
 
 Pleasure never is at home : vii 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
 
 Then let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still spread beyond her : 
 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
 
 She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 
 H O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
 And the enjoying of the Spring 
 Fades as does its blossoming ; 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
 Blushing through the mist and dew. 
 Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 The sear faggot blazes bright, 
 Spirit of a winter's night ; 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 Sit thee there, and send abroad 
 With a mind self-overawed, 
 Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! 
 She has vassals to attend her : 
 
 U7
 
 PART IV She will bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 vii Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 
 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 All delights of summer weather ; 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 
 With a still, mysterious stealth : 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup, J 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear " 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
 Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 And, in the same moment — hark ! 
 'Tis the early April lark. 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw. 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 The daisy and the marigold ; 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
 Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 148
 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin ; PART IV 
 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see vii 
 
 Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
 
 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
 
 Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
 
 WTiile the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 II Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Every thing is spoilt by use : 
 WTiere's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 
 Wliose lip mature is ever new ? 
 Where's the eye, however blue. 
 Doth not weary ? Where's the face 
 One would meet in every place ? 
 Where's the voice, however soft, 
 One would hear so very oft ? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
 Let, then, winged Fancy find 
 Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
 Ere the God of Torment taught her 
 How to frown and how to chide ; 
 With a waist and with a side 
 White as Hebe's, when her zone 
 
 149
 
 PART IV Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 
 vii Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
 
 While she held the goblet sweet, 
 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
 
 Quickly break her prison-string 
 
 And such joys as these she'll bring. 
 
 ^ Let the winged Fancy roam. 
 Pleasure never is at home. 
 
 150
 
 BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, PART IV 
 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! viii 
 
 Have ye souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new ? 
 
 m Yes, and those of heaven commune 
 With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
 With the noise of fountains wond'rouSy 
 And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 And one another, in soft ease 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ; 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented. 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
 And the rose herself has got 
 Perfume which on earth is not ; 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
 But divine melodious truth ; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 H Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again ; 
 And the souls ye left behind you 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
 Where your other souls are joying,
 
 PART IV Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
 
 viii Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
 
 To mortals, of their little week ; 
 Of their sorrows and delights ; 
 Of their passions and their spites ; 
 Of their glory and their shame ; 
 What doth strengthen and what maim. 
 Thus ye teach us, every day, 
 Wisdom, though fled far away. 
 
 ^ Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Ye have souls in heaven too. 
 Double-lived in regions new ! 
 
 152
 
 SOULS of Poets dead and gone, PART IV 
 
 What Elysium have ye known, ix 
 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
 m Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of venison ? O generous food ! 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
 Would, with his maid Marian, 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
 ^ I have heard that on a day 
 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
 
 Nobody knew whither, till 
 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 
 To a sheepskin gave the story, 
 
 Said he saw you in your glory. 
 
 Underneath a new old-sign 
 
 Sipping beverage divine, 
 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 H Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
 153
 
 PART IV NO ! those days are gone away, 
 
 X And their hours are old and gray, 
 
 And their minutes buried all 
 Under the down-trodden pall 
 Of the leaves o£ many years : 
 Many times have winter's shears, 
 Frozen North, and chilling East, 
 Sounded tempests to the feast 
 Of the forests' whispering fleeces, 
 Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 
 
 ^ No, the bugle sounds no more, 
 And the twanging bow no more ; 
 Silent is the ivory shrill 
 Past the heath and up the hill ; 
 There is no mid-forest laugh, 
 Where lone Echo gives the half 
 To some wight, amazed to hear 
 Jesting, deep in forest drear. 
 
 ^ On the fairest time of June 
 You may go, with sun or moon, 
 Or the seven stars to light you. 
 Or the polar ray to right you ; 
 But you never may behold 
 Little John, or Robin bold ; 
 Never one, of all the clan. 
 Thrumming on an empty can 
 Some old hunting ditty, while 
 
 154
 
 He doth his green way beguile PART IV 
 
 To fair hostess Merriment, x 
 
 Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
 For he left the merry tale, 
 Messenger for spicy ale. 
 
 ^ Gone, the merry morris din ; 
 Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
 Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
 Idling in the " grene shawe " ; 
 All are gone away and past ! 
 And if Robin should be cast 
 Sudden from his turfed grave, 
 And if Marian should have 
 Once again her forest days. 
 She would weep, and he would craze : 
 He would swear, for all his oaks, 
 Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes, 
 Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
 She would weep that her wild bees 
 Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
 Can't be got without hard money ! 
 
 ^ So it is : yet let us sing. 
 Honour to the old bow-string ! 
 Honour to the bugle-horn ! 
 Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
 Honour to the Lincoln green ! 
 Honour to the archer keen !
 
 PART IV Honour to tight Little John 
 
 X And the horse he rode upon ! 
 
 Honour to bold Robin Hood, 
 Sleeping in the underwood ! 
 Honour to Maid Marian, 
 And to all the Sherwood-clan ! 
 Though their days have hurried by, 
 Let us two a burden try. 
 
 156
 
 SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, PART IV 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; xi 
 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
 Until they think warm days will never cease, 
 
 For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. 
 
 II 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
 
 Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
 
 157
 
 PART IV Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 xi Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
 Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 158
 
 NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist PART IV 
 
 Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; xii 
 
 Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 
 
 By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
 Make not your rosary of dew-berries, 
 
 Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
 Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
 A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 
 
 For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
 And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 
 
 II 
 
 But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
 
 Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
 That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
 
 And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 
 Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
 Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
 
 Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
 And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes, 
 
 III 
 
 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 
 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 
 
 Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
 Ay, in the very temple of Delight 
 
 159
 
 PART IV Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 
 
 ^i Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
 
 Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; [tongue 
 His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
 And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 
 
 i6o
 
 I 
 
 ONE morn before me were three figures seen, PART IV 
 
 With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced ; liii 
 
 And one behind the other stepp'd serene, 
 
 In placid sandals, and in white robes graced ; 
 They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn, 
 
 When shifted round to see the other side ; 
 They came again ; as when the urn once more 
 Is shifted round, the first seen shades return ; 
 
 And they were strange to me, as may betide 
 With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. 
 
 II 
 
 How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? 
 
 How came ye muffled in so hush a mask ? 
 Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 
 
 To steal away, and leave without a task 
 
 My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy hour ; 
 
 The blissful cloud of summer-indolence 
 Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less ; 
 
 Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower : 
 
 O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense 
 Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd 
 
 Each one the face a moment whiles to me ; 
 Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd. 
 
 And ach'd for wings, because I knew the three ; 
 The first was a fair Maid and Love her name ; 
 L i6i
 
 PART JV The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, 
 xiii And ever watchful with fatigued eye ; 
 
 The last, whom I love more, the more of blame 
 Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, 
 I knew to be my demon Poesy. 
 
 IV 
 They faded, and, forsooth ! I wanted wings : 
 
 O foUy ! What is Love ? and where is it ? 
 And for that poor Ambition ! it springs 
 From a man's little heart's short fever-fit ; 
 
 For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
 At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons, 
 And evenings steep'd in honey'd indolence ; 
 O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy. 
 That I may never know how change the moons, 
 Or hear the voice of busy common-sense ! 
 
 And once more came they by ; — alas ! wherefore ? 
 
 My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams ; 
 My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er 
 
 With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams : 
 The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, 
 
 Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May ; 
 The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine, 
 
 Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay ; 
 O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid farewell ! 
 Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. 
 162
 
 VI 
 
 So, ye three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot raise PART IV 
 
 My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass ; xiii 
 
 For I would not be dieted with praise, 
 
 A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
 
 Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more 
 
 In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn ; 
 Farewell ! I yet have visions for the night, 
 
 And for the day faint visions there is store ; 
 Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle spright. 
 
 Into the clouds, and never more return ! 
 
 J 63
 
 PART IV O THOU ! whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, 
 xiy Whose eye hath seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, 
 
 And the black elm-tops 'mong the freezing stars : 
 To thee the Spring will be a harvest-time. 
 O thou ! whose only book hath been the light 
 Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on 
 Night after night, when Phoebus was away, 
 To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. 
 O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none, 
 And yet my song comes native with the warmth. 
 O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none. 
 And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens 
 At thought of idleness cannot be idle. 
 And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. 
 
 164
 
 PART V. HYPERION 
 
 A. HYPERION: A FRAGMENT 
 
 B. THE FALL OF HYPERION: A DREAM
 
 PART V. A DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale 
 
 Book I Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 
 Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, 
 Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
 Still as the silence round about his lair ; 
 Forest on forest hung about his head 
 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, 
 Not so much life as on a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 
 A stream went voiceless by, still deadn'd more 
 By reason of his fallen divinity 
 Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 
 Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 
 ^ Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went. 
 No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
 And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
 His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
 Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
 While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth, 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 f[ It seem'd no force could wake him from his place ; 
 But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
 Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
 With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
 She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
 By her in stature the tall Amazon 
 Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
 AchiUes by the hair and bent his neck ; 
 1 66
 
 Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. PART V. A 
 
 Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Book I 
 
 Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, 
 
 When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
 
 But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : 
 
 How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
 
 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
 
 There was a listening fear in her regard, 
 
 As if calamity had but begun ; 
 
 As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
 
 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
 
 One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 
 
 Where beats the human heart, as if just there. 
 
 Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
 
 The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
 
 She laid, and to the level of his ear 
 
 Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
 
 In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone : 
 
 Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 
 
 Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 
 
 To that large utterance of the early Gods I 
 
 Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, poor old King ? 
 
 I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
 
 I cannot say, O wherefore sleepest thou ? 
 
 For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
 
 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 
 
 And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
 
 Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
 
 167
 
 PART V. A Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
 
 Book I Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 
 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
 And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
 Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
 O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
 All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
 And press it so upon our weary griefs 
 That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
 Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I 
 Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
 Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
 Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep. 
 ff As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
 Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods, 
 Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
 Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
 Save from one gradual solitary gust 
 Which comes upon the silence, and dies off. 
 As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
 So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
 She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 
 Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
 A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
 One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
 Her silver seasons four upon the night, 
 And still these two were postured motionless, 
 Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
 The frozen God still couchant on the earth, 
 i68
 
 And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : PART V. A 
 
 Until at length old Saturn lifted up Book I 
 
 His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 
 
 And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 
 
 And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake, 
 
 As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
 
 Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
 
 O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
 
 Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
 
 Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
 
 Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
 
 Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
 
 Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 
 
 Naked and bare of its great diadem. 
 
 Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 
 
 To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 
 
 How was it nurtured to such bursting forth, 
 
 While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp ? 
 
 But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, 
 
 And buried from all godlike exercise 
 
 Of influence benign on planets pale. 
 
 Of admonitions to the winds and seas. 
 
 Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting. 
 
 And all those acts which Deity supreme 
 
 Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
 
 Away from my own bosom : I have left 
 
 My strong identity, my real self. 
 
 Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 
 
 Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 
 
 169
 
 PART V. A Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 
 Book I Upon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light ; 
 Space region'd with life-air ; and barren void ; 
 Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. 
 Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thou seest 
 A certain shape or shadow, making way 
 With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
 A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 
 Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
 Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 
 There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown 
 Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
 Upon the gold clouds metropolitan. 
 Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
 Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
 Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
 Of the sky-children ; I will give command : 
 Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? 
 ^ This passion lifted him upon his feet, 
 And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
 His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat. 
 His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
 He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep ; 
 A little time, and then again he snatch'd 
 Utterance thus.-^ut cannot I create ? 
 Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 
 Another world, another universe, 
 To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
 Where is another chaos ? Where?! That word 
 170
 
 Found way into Olympus, and made quake PART V, A 
 
 The rebel three. — ^Thea was startled up, Book I 
 
 And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
 
 As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. 
 
 fl This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends, 
 
 Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 
 
 1 know the covert, for thence came I hither. 
 Thus brief ; then with beseeching eyes she went 
 With backward footing through the shade a space : 
 He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way 
 Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
 Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest. 
 
 ^ Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
 More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
 Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 
 The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
 Groan'd for the old allegiance once more, 
 And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
 But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
 His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty ; 
 Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
 Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming up 
 From man to the sun's God ; yet unsecure : 
 For as among us mortals omens drear 
 Fright and perplex, so also shudder'd he ; 
 Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech. 
 Or the familiar visiting of one 
 Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,
 
 PART V. A Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
 Book I But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve, 
 
 Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
 
 Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold. 
 
 And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 
 
 Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts. 
 
 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
 
 And all its curtains of Aurorean clouds 
 
 Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings, 
 
 Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
 
 Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were heard, 
 
 Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
 
 Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths 
 
 Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills, 
 
 Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
 
 Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick : 
 
 And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west. 
 
 After the full completion of fair day, 
 
 For rest divine upon exalted couch 
 
 And slumber in the arms of melody. 
 
 He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease 
 
 With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
 
 While far within each aisle and deep recess. 
 
 His winged minions in close clusters stood, 
 
 Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 
 
 Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, 
 
 When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 
 
 Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 
 
 Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 
 
 172
 
 Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, PART V. A 
 
 Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; Book I 
 
 Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
 
 In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes, 
 
 Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 
 
 And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies ; 
 
 And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
 
 In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye. 
 
 That inlet to severe magnificence 
 
 Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 
 
 m He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
 
 His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels. 
 
 And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire. 
 
 That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
 
 And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared, 
 
 From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 
 
 Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light. 
 
 And diamond-pav'd lustrous long arcades. 
 
 Until he reach'd the great main cupola ; 
 
 There standing fierce beneath, he stamped his foot, 
 
 And from the basements deep to the high towers 
 
 Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
 
 The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 
 
 His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb. 
 
 To this result : O dreams of day and night ! 
 
 O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
 
 O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 
 
 O lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 
 
 Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why 
 
 173
 
 PART V. A Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
 Book I To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
 Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
 Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
 This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 
 This calm luxuriance of blissful light. 
 These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
 Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 
 Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
 The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 
 I cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
 Even here, into my centre of repose, 
 The shady visions come to domineer. 
 Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. 
 Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes 1 
 Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
 I will advance a terrible right arm 
 Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 
 And bid old Saturn take his throne again. 
 He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat 
 Held struggle with his throat but came not forth 
 For as in theatres of crowded men 
 Hubbub increases more they call out Hush ! 
 So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
 Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 
 And from the mirror'd level where he stood 
 A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
 At this, through all his bulk an agony 
 Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown. 
 
 '74
 
 Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular PART V. A 
 
 Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed Book I 
 
 From over-strained might. Releas'd, he fled 
 
 To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 
 
 Before the dawn in season due should blush. 
 
 He breath'd fierce breath against the sleepy portals, 
 
 Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them vdde 
 
 Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
 
 The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
 
 Each day from east to west the heavens through, 
 
 Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; 
 
 Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 
 
 But ever and anon the glancing spheres. 
 
 Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
 
 Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark 
 
 Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 
 
 Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 
 
 Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
 
 Then living on the earth, with labouring thought 
 
 Won from the gaze of many centuries : 
 
 Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 
 
 Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone, 
 
 Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this orb 
 
 Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings, 
 
 Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
 
 And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense 
 
 Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 
 
 While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse. 
 
 Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
 
 175
 
 PART V. A Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 
 Book I And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
 
 He might not : — No, though a primeval God : 
 The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
 Therefore the operations of the dawn 
 Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 
 Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 
 Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 
 Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 
 And the bright Titan, frenzied with new woes. 
 Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
 His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
 And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
 Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
 He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint. 
 There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
 Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 
 Of Ccelus, from the universal space, 
 Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear. 
 O brightest of my children dear, earth-born 
 And sky-engender'd, Son of Mysteries 
 All unrevealed even to the powers 
 Which met at thy creating ; at whose joys 
 And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
 I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and whence ; 
 And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 
 Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine, 
 Manifestations of that beauteous life 
 Diffused unseen throughout eternal space : 
 176
 
 V. 
 
 Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child ! PART V. A 
 
 Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses ! Book I 
 
 There is sad feud among ye, and rebelhon 
 
 Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 
 
 I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne ! 
 
 To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 
 
 Found way from forth the thunders round his head ! 
 
 Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face. 
 
 Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there is : 
 
 For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
 
 Divine ye were created, and divine 
 
 In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd. 
 
 Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled : 
 
 Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ; 
 
 Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
 
 I see them, on the mortal world beneath. 
 
 In men who die. — This is the grief, O Son ! 
 
 Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
 
 Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable, 
 
 As thou canst move about, an evident God ; 
 
 And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
 
 Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 
 
 My life is but the life of winds and tides, 
 
 No more than winds and tides can I avail : 
 
 But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van 
 
 Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
 
 Before the tense string murmur. — ^To the earth ! 
 
 For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 
 
 Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, 
 
 M 177
 
 PART V. A And of the seasons be a careful nurse. 
 
 Book I Ere half this region-whisper had come down, 
 Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
 Lifted his curved lips, and kept them wide 
 Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide. 
 And still they were the same bright, patient stars. 
 Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, 
 Like to a diver in the pearly seas. 
 Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore, 
 And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. 
 
 178
 
 JUST at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings PART \'. A 
 
 Hyperion slid into the rustled air, Book II 
 
 And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place 
 
 Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd. 
 
 It was a den where no insulting light 
 
 Could glimmer on their tears ; where their own groans 
 
 They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
 
 Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse. 
 
 Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
 
 Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 
 
 Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 
 
 Forehead to Forehead held their monstrous horns ; 
 
 And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 
 
 Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 
 
 Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon. 
 
 Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 
 
 Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled : 
 
 Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering. 
 
 Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 
 
 Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 
 
 With many more, the brawniest in assault. 
 
 Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 
 
 Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep 
 
 Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs 
 
 Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd ; 
 
 Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
 
 Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd 
 
 With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse. 
 
 Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 
 
 179
 
 PART V. A Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered ; 
 Book II And many else were free to roam abroad, 
 
 But for the main, here found they covert drear. 
 
 Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 
 
 Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 
 
 Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor, 
 
 When the chill rain begins at shut of eve. 
 
 In dull November, and their chancel vault. 
 
 The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 
 
 Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave 
 
 Or word, or look, or action of despair. 
 
 Creiis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 
 
 Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 
 
 Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined. 
 
 lapetus another ; in his grasp, 
 
 A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 
 
 Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length 
 
 Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 
 
 Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 
 
 Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost, 
 
 As though in pain ; for still upon the flint 
 
 He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 
 
 And eyes at horrid waking. Nearest him 
 
 Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
 
 Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 
 
 Though feminine, than any of her sons : 
 
 More thought than woe was in her dusky face. 
 
 For she was prophesying of her glory ; 
 
 And in her wide imagination stood 
 
 1 80
 
 Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, PART V. A 
 
 By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. Book II 
 
 Even as Hope upon her anchor leans. 
 
 So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
 
 Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
 
 Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve, 
 
 Upon his elbow rais'd, all prostrate else, 
 
 Shadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and mild 
 
 As grazing ox unworried in the meads ; 
 
 Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth. 
 
 He meditated, plotted, and even now 
 
 Was hurling mountains in that second war, 
 
 Not long delay'd, that scared the younger Gods 
 
 To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 
 
 Not far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 
 
 Phorcus, the Sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd close 
 
 Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
 
 Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
 
 In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
 
 Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 
 
 No shape distinguishable, more than when 
 
 Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds : 
 
 And many else whose names may not be told. 
 
 For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread. 
 
 Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chant 
 
 Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd 
 
 With damp and slippery footing from a depth 
 
 More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
 
 Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew 
 
 i8i
 
 PART V. A Till on the level height their steps found ease : 
 Book II Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 
 Upon the precincts of this nest of pain. 
 And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face : 
 There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 
 At war with all the frailty of grief. 
 Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge. 
 Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 
 Against these plagues he strove in vain ; for Fate 
 Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
 A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
 Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass 
 First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 
 ^ As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
 Is persecuted more, and fever'd more. 
 When it is nighing to the mournful house 
 Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
 So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst. 
 Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
 But that he met Enceladus's eye, 
 Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
 Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted. 
 Titans, behold your God ! at which some groan'd ; 
 Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
 Some wept, some wail'd, all bow'd with reverence ; 
 And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
 Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan. 
 Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
 There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
 182
 
 When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise PART V. A 
 
 Among immortals when a God gives sign. Book II 
 
 With hushing finger, how he means to load 
 His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought, 
 With thunder, and with music, and with pomp : 
 Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
 Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world. 
 No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here, 
 Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
 Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
 Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short, 
 Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
 Thus grew it up — Not in my own sad breast, 
 Which is its own great judge and searcher out. 
 Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
 Not in the legends of the first of days, 
 Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
 Which starry Uranus with finger bright 
 Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when the waves 
 Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ; 
 And the which book ye know I ever kept 
 For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 
 Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
 Of element, earth, water, air, and fire. 
 At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 
 One against one, or two, or three, or all. 
 Each several one against the other three. 
 As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 
 Drown both, and press them both against earth's face, 
 
 183
 
 PART V. A Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
 Book II Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 
 
 Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep, 
 Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
 No, no-where can unriddle, though I search. 
 And pore on Nature's universal scroll 
 Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
 The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 
 Should cower beneath what, in comparison. 
 Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
 O'erwhelmed, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here ! 
 O Titans, shall I say Arise ! — Ye groan : 
 Shall I say Crouch ! — Ye groan. What can I then ? 
 O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
 What can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 
 How we can war, how engine our great wrath ! 
 O speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
 Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
 Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 
 • I see, astonied, that severe content 
 
 Which comes of thought and musing : give us help ! 
 H So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
 Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove. 
 But cogitation in his watery shades. 
 Arose, with locks not oozy, and began. 
 In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue 
 Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
 '^ O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion-stung, 
 Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
 184
 
 Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
 JVly voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
 Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
 How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
 And in the proof much comfort will I give, 
 If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
 We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 
 Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
 Has sifted well the atom-universe ; 
 But for this reason, that thou art the King, 
 And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
 One avenue was shaded from thine eyes, 
 Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
 And first, as thou wast not the first of powers, 
 So art thou not the last ; it cannot be : 
 Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
 From chaos and parental darkness came 
 Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil. 
 That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 
 Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came,\ 
 And with it light, and light, engendering 
 Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 
 The whole enormous matter into life. 
 Upon that very hour, our parentage. 
 The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : / 
 Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, 
 Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 
 Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain ; 
 O folly ! for to bear aU naked truths, 
 
 PART V. A 
 Book H 
 
 '\ 
 
 i8s
 
 PART V. A And to envisage circumstance, all calm, 
 Book II That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well ! 
 As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
 Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs :, 
 And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 
 In form and shape compact and beautiful, 
 In vdll, in action free, companionship. 
 And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
 So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
 A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
 And fated to excel us, as we pass 
 In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 
 Thereby more conquer'd, than by us the rule 
 Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 
 Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, 
 And feedeth still, more comely than itself ? 
 Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 
 Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
 Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
 To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
 •We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
 Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
 But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 
 Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
 In right thereof ; for 'tis the eternal law 
 ^The first in beauty should be first in might : 
 Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
 Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
 Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas,, 
 i86
 
 My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? PART V. A 
 
 Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along Book H 
 
 By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 
 
 I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
 
 With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
 
 That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
 
 To all my empire : farewell sad I took, 
 
 And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
 
 Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
 
 Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
 
 Receive the truth, and let it be your balm. 
 
 ^ Whether through pozed conviction, or disdain, 
 
 They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
 
 Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? 
 
 But so it was, none answer'd for a space. 
 
 Save one whom none regarded, Clymene ; 
 
 And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd. 
 
 With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild. 
 
 Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
 
 Father, I am here the simplest voice, 
 And all my knowledge is that joy is gone, 
 And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 
 There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
 
 1 would not bode of evil, if I thought 
 
 So weak a creature could turn off the help 
 Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 
 Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
 Of what I heard, and how it made me weep. 
 And know that we had parted from all hope. 
 
 187
 
 PART V. A I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 
 
 Book II Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 
 Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 
 Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 
 Too full of J07 and soft delicious warmth ; 
 So that I felt a movement in my heart 
 To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
 With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
 And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
 And murmur'd into it, and made melody ; 
 
 melody no more ! for while I sang, 
 And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
 The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
 Just opposite, an island of the sea. 
 
 There came enchantment with the shifting wind, 
 That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 
 
 1 threw my shell away upon the sand. 
 And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd 
 With that new blissful golden melody. 
 
 A living death was in each gush of sounds. 
 
 Each family of rapturous hurried notes. 
 
 That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 
 
 Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string : 
 
 And then another, then another strain, 
 
 Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 
 
 With music wing'd instead of silent plumes. 
 
 To hover round my head, and make me sick 
 
 Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame. 
 
 And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 
 
 188
 
 When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, PART V. A 
 
 A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, Book II 
 
 And still it cried, Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
 
 The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
 
 I fled, it foUow'd me, and cried Apollo ! 
 
 O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 
 
 Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst thou felt, 
 
 Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
 
 Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard. 
 
 fl So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook 
 
 That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
 
 Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
 
 And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming voice 
 
 Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath : 
 
 The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
 
 In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
 
 Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
 
 He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
 
 Or shall we listen to the over-wise. 
 
 Or to the over-foolish Giant-Gods ? 
 
 Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
 
 That rebel Jove's whole armoury were spent. 
 
 Not world on world upon these shoulders piled. 
 
 Could agonize me more than baby-words 
 
 In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
 
 Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all. 
 
 Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
 
 Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
 
 Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves. 
 
 189
 
 PART V. A Thy scalding in the seas ? What, have I roused 
 Book II Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
 O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
 O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
 Wide glaring for revenge ! — As this he said, 
 He lifted up his stature vast, and stood, 
 Still without intermission speaking thus : 
 Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how to burn, 
 And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
 How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire, 
 And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 
 Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
 O let him feel the evil he hath done ; 
 For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 
 Much pain have I for more than loss of realms : 
 The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 
 Those days, all innocent of scathing war. 
 When all the fair Existences of heaven 
 Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : 
 That was before our brows were taught to frown, 
 Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 
 That was before we knew the winged thing, 
 Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
 And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
 Our brightest brother, stiU is undisgraced ; 
 Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! 
 ^ All eyes were on Enceladus's face. 
 And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 
 Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
 190
 
 A pallid gleam across his features stern : PART V. A 
 
 Not savage, for he saw full many a God Book II 
 
 Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all, 
 
 And in each face he saw a gleam of light, 
 
 But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
 
 Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
 
 When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. 
 
 In pale and silver silence they remain'd, 
 
 Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn, 
 
 Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
 
 All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
 
 And every gulf, and every chasm old. 
 
 And every height, and every sullen depth, 
 
 Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 
 
 And all the everlasting cataracts, 
 
 And all the headlong torrents far and near. 
 
 Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, 
 
 Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
 
 It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 
 
 His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view 
 
 The misery his brilliance had betray'd 
 
 To the most hateful seeing of itself. 
 
 Golden his hair of short Numidian curl. 
 
 Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 
 
 In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 
 
 Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
 
 To one who travels from the dusking East : 
 
 Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, 
 
 He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, 
 
 191
 
 PART V. A He press'd together, and in silence stood. 
 Book II Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 
 At sight of the dejected King of Day, 
 And many hid their faces from the light : 
 But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
 Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 
 Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
 And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 
 To where he tower'd on his eminence. 
 There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name ; 
 Hyperion from the peak loud answer'd, Saturn ! 
 Saturn sat near the mother of the Gods, 
 In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 
 Gave from their hollow throats the name of Saturn 
 
 192
 
 THUS, in alternate uproar and sad peace, PART V. A 
 
 Amazed were those Titans utterly. Book III 
 
 O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to their woes ; 
 For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 
 A solitary sorrow best befits 
 Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
 Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find 
 Many a fallen old Divinity 
 Wandering in vain about bewilder'd shores. 
 Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp. 
 And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 
 In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 
 For lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 
 Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue, 
 Let the rose glow intense and warm the air. 
 And let the clouds of even and of morn 
 Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 
 Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
 Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd shells 
 On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn 
 Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 
 Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 
 Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 
 Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 
 And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 
 In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song. 
 And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade : 
 ApoUo is once more the golden theme ! 
 m Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
 
 N 193
 
 PART V. A Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
 Book III Together had he left his mother fair 
 
 And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 
 
 And in the morning twilight wandered forth 
 
 Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 
 
 Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
 
 The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars 
 
 Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 
 
 Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 
 
 There was no covert, no retired cave 
 
 Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves. 
 
 Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 
 
 He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears 
 
 Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 
 
 Thus with half-shut eyes he stood, 
 
 While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 
 
 With solemn step an awful Goddess came. 
 
 And there was purport in her looks for him. 
 
 Which he with eager guess began to read 
 
 Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said : 
 
 How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea ? 
 
 Or hath that antique mien and robed form 
 
 Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
 
 Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 
 
 The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
 
 In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 
 
 The rustle of those ample skirts about 
 
 These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 
 
 Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. 
 
 194
 
 Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before, PART V. A 
 
 And their eternal calm, and all that face. Book III 
 
 Or I have dream'd. — Yes, said the supreme shape, 
 
 Thou hast dream'd of me : and awaking up 
 
 Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, 
 
 Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast 
 
 Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
 
 Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
 
 Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange 
 
 That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youth. 
 
 What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
 
 When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs 
 
 To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
 
 The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 
 
 From the young day when first thy infant hand 
 
 Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 
 
 Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
 
 Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 
 
 Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
 
 For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
 
 Of loveliness new born. — Apollo then. 
 
 With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
 
 Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat 
 
 Throbb'd with the syllables : — Mnemosyne ! 
 
 Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 
 
 Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? 
 
 Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 
 
 Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark. 
 
 And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes :
 
 PART V. A I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, 
 Book III Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 
 
 And then upon the grass I sit, and moan 
 
 Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 
 
 Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 
 
 Yields to my step aspirant ? Why should I 
 
 Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 
 
 Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing : 
 
 Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
 
 What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun ! 
 
 And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 
 
 And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 
 
 To any one particular beauteous star. 
 
 And I will iiit into it with my lyre. 
 
 And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. 
 
 I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is power ? 
 
 Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 
 
 Make this alarum in the elements. 
 
 While I here idle listen on the shores 
 
 In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 
 
 O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp. 
 
 That waileth every morn and eventide, 
 
 Tell me why thus I rave about these groves ! 
 
 Mute thou remainest — mute ! yet I can read 
 
 A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
 
 Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 
 
 Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions. 
 
 Majesties, sovran voices, agonies. 
 
 Creations and destroyings, all at once 
 
 196
 
 Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, PART V. A 
 
 And deify me, as if some blithe wine Book III 
 
 Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 
 
 And so become immortal. — Thus the God, 
 
 While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 
 
 Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept 
 
 Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
 
 Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 
 
 All the immortal fairness of his limbs ; 
 
 Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 
 
 Or liker still to one who should take leave 
 
 Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 
 
 As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 
 
 Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd : 
 
 His very hair, his golden tresses famed 
 
 Kept undulation round his eager neck. 
 
 During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 
 
 Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 
 
 Apollo shrieked ; — and lo 1 from all his limbs 
 
 Celestial 
 
 197
 
 PART V. B FANATICS have their dreams, wherewith they weave 
 Canto I A paradise for a sect , the savage, too, 
 
 From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep 
 
 Guesses at heaven ; pity these have not 
 
 Traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf 
 
 The shadows of melodious utterance. 
 
 But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die ; 
 
 For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, 
 
 With the fine spell of words alone can save 
 
 Imagination from the sable chain 
 
 And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, 
 
 Thou art no Poet — mayst not tell thy dreams ? 
 
 Since every man whose soul is not a clod 
 
 Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, 
 
 And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. 
 
 Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse 
 
 Be poet's or fanatic's will be known 
 
 When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave. 
 
 m Methought I stood where trees of every clime, 
 
 Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 
 
 With plantain and spice-blossoms, made a screen, 
 
 In neighbourhood of fountains fby the noise 
 
 Soft-showering in mine ears) and (by the touch 
 
 Of scent) not far from roses. Turning round 
 
 I saw an arbour with a drooping roof 
 
 Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms, 
 
 Like floral censers, swinging light in air ; 
 
 Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound 
 
 Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits, 
 
 198
 
 Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal PART V. B 
 
 By Angel tasted or our Mother Eve ; Canto I 
 
 For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass, 
 
 And grapestalks but half-bare, and remnants more 
 
 Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know. 
 
 Still was more plenty than the fabled horn 
 
 Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting. 
 
 For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, 
 
 Where the white heifers low. And appetite, 
 
 More yearning than on earth I ever felt, 
 
 Growing within, I ate deliciously ; 
 
 And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby 
 
 Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice 
 
 Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took. 
 
 And pledging all the mortals of the world. 
 
 And all the dead whose names are in our lips, 
 
 Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme . 
 
 No Asian poppy nor elixir fine 
 
 Of the soon-fading, jealous Caliphat, 
 
 No poison gender'd in close monkish cell. 
 
 To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, 
 
 Could so have rapt unwilling life away. 
 
 Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd 
 
 Upon the grass I struggled hard against 
 
 The domineering potion, but in vain : 
 
 The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank, 
 
 Like a Silenus on an antique vase. 
 
 How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess. 
 
 When sense of life return'd I started up, 
 
 199
 
 PART V. B As if with wings, but the fair trees were gone, 
 Canto I The mossy mound and arbour were no more : 
 I look'd around me upon the curved sides 
 Of an old sanctuary, with roof august, 
 Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds 
 Might spread beneath as o'er the stars of heaven. 
 So old the place was, I remember'd none 
 The like upon the earth : what I had seen 
 Of gray cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers, 
 The superannuations of sunk realms. 
 Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds, 
 Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things 
 To that eternal domed monument. 
 Upon the marble at my feet there lay 
 Store of strange vessels and large draperies, 
 Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove. 
 Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, 
 So white the linen, so, in some, distinct 
 Ran imageries from a sombre loom. 
 All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay 
 Robes, golden tongs, censer, and chafing-dish. 
 Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. 
 •^ Turning from these with awe, once more I raised 
 My eyes to fathom the space every way : 
 The embossed roof, the silent massy range 
 Of columns north and south, ending in mist 
 Of nothing ; then to Eastward, where black gates 
 Were shut against the sunrise evermore ; 
 Then to the West I look'd, and saw far off 
 200
 
 An image, huge of feature as a cloud, PART V. B 
 
 At level of whose feet an altar slept, Canto I 
 
 To be approach'd on either side by steps 
 
 And marble balustrade, and patient travail 
 
 To count vi^ith toil the innumerable degrees. 
 
 Towards the altar sober-paced I went 
 
 Repressing haste as too unholy there ; 
 
 And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine 
 
 One minist'ring ; and there arose a flame. 
 
 When in midday the sickening east-wind 
 
 Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain 
 
 Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers. 
 
 And fills the air with so much pleasant health 
 
 That even the dying man forgets his shroud ; 
 
 Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, 
 
 Sending forth Maian incense, spread around 
 
 Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, 
 
 And clouded all the altar with soft smoke ; 
 
 From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard 
 
 Language pronounc'd : If thou canst not ascend 
 
 These steps, die on that marble where thou art. ^ 
 
 Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust. 
 
 Will parch for lack of nutriment ; thy bones 
 
 Will wither in few years, and vanish so 
 
 That not the quickest eye could find a grain 
 
 Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. 
 
 The sands of thy short life are spent this hour, 
 
 And no hand in the universe can turn 
 
 Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt 
 
 201
 
 PART V. B Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps. 
 Canto I I heard, I look'd : two senses both at once, 
 So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny 
 Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed. 
 Prodigious seem'd the toil ; the leaves were yet 
 Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill 
 Struck from the paved level up my limbs, 
 And was ascending quick to put cold grasp 
 Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat. 
 I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek 
 Stung my own ears ; I strove hard to escape 
 The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step. 
 Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace ; the cold 
 Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart ; 
 And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not. 
 One minute before death my iced foot touch'd 
 The lowest stair ; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd 
 ' To pour in at the toes ; I mounted up 
 
 As once fair angels on a ladder flew 
 From the green turf to heaven. Holy Power, 
 iedi; apprbachin^near the horned shrine, 
 ^hat am I that should so be saved from death ? 
 What am I that another death came not 
 To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here ? 
 Then said the veiled shadow : Thou hast felt 
 What 'tis to die and live again before 
 Thy fated hour ; that thou hadst power to do so- 
 ls thine own safety ; thou hast dated on 
 Thy doom. High Prophetess, sa^d I, purge off, 
 
 202 
 
 ^h
 
 Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film. PART V. B 
 
 None can usurp this height, returned that shade. Canto I 
 
 But those to whom the miseries of the world 
 
 Are misery, and will not let them rest. 
 
 All else who find a haven in the world, 
 
 Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days 
 
 If by a chance into this fane they come, 
 
 Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half. 
 
 Are there not thousands in the world, said I 
 
 Encouraged by the sooth voice of the shade. 
 
 Who love their fellows even to the death, 
 
 Who feel the giant agony of the world, 
 
 And more, like slaves to poor humanity. 
 
 Labour for mortal good ? I sure should see 
 
 Other men here, but I am here alone. 
 
 Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries, 
 
 Rejoin'd that voice ; they are no dreamers weak ; 
 
 They seek no wonder but the human face, 
 
 No music but a happy-noted voice : 
 
 They come not here, they have no thought to come ; 
 
 And thou art here, for thou art less than they. 
 
 What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, 
 
 To the great world ? Thou art a dreaming thing, 
 
 A fever of thyself : think of the earth : 
 
 What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee ? 
 
 What haven ? every creature hath its home. 
 
 Every sole man hath days of joy and pain. 
 
 Whether his labours be sublime or low — 
 
 The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct : 
 
 203
 
 PART V. B Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 
 Canto I Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. 
 
 Therefore, that happiness be somew^hat shar'd, 
 
 Such things as thou art are admitted oft 
 
 Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile, 
 
 And suffer'd in these temples : for that cause 
 
 Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees. 
 
 That I am favour'd for unv^orthiness, 
 
 By such propitious parley medicined 
 
 In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice, 
 
 Aye, and could weep for love of such award. 
 
 So answered I, continuing. If it please, 
 
 Majestic shadow, tell me where I am. 
 
 Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls ; 
 
 What image this whose face I cannot see 
 
 For the broad marble knees ; and who thou art, 
 
 Of accent feminine, so courteous ? 
 
 U Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veiPd, 
 
 Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath 
 
 Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung 
 
 About a golden censer from her hand 
 
 Pendent ; and by her voice I knew she shed 
 
 Long-treasured tears. This temple, sad and lone, 
 
 Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war 
 
 Foughten long since by giant hierarchy 
 
 Against rebellion : this old image here. 
 
 Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell. 
 
 Is Saturn's ; I, Moneta, left supreme, 
 
 Sole Priestess of his desolation. 
 
 204
 
 I had no words to answer, for my tongue, PART V. B 
 
 Useless, could find about its roofed home Canto I 
 
 No syllable of a fit majesty 
 
 To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn : 
 
 There was a silence, while the altar's blaze 
 
 Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon, 
 
 And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled 
 
 Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps 
 
 Of other crisped spicewood : then again 
 
 I look'd upon the altar, and its horns 
 
 Whiten'd with ashes, and its lang'rous flame. 
 
 And then upon the offerings again ; 
 
 And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried : 
 
 The sacrifice is done, but not the less 
 
 Will I be kind to thee for thy good will. 
 
 My power, which to me is still a curse. 
 
 Shall be to thee a wonder, for the scenes 
 
 Still swooning vivid through my globed brain. 
 
 With an electral changing misery, 
 
 Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold 
 
 Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not. 
 
 As near as an immortal's sphered words 
 
 Could to a mother's soften were these last : 
 
 And yet I had a terror of her robes. 
 
 And chiefly of the veils that from her brow 
 
 Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries, 
 
 That made my heart too small to hold its blood. 
 
 This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand 
 
 Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, 
 
 205
 
 PART V. B Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd 
 Canto I By an immortal sickness which kills not ; 
 
 It works a constant change, which happy death 
 
 Can put no end to ; deathwards progressing 
 
 To no death was that visage ; it had past 
 
 The lily and the snow ; and beyond these 
 
 I must not think now, though I saw that face. 
 
 But for her eyes I should have fled away ; 
 
 They held me back with a benignant light, 
 
 Soft, mitigated by divinest lids 
 
 Half-closed, and visionless entire they seem'd 
 
 Of all external things ; they saw me not. 
 
 But in black splendour beam'd, like the mild moon, 
 
 Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not 
 
 What eyes are upward cast. As I had found 
 
 A grain of gold upon a mountain side, 
 
 And, twinged with avarice, strain'd out my eyes 
 
 To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, 
 
 So, at the view of sad Moneta's brow, 
 
 I ask'd to see what things the hollow brain 
 
 Behind enwombed : what high tragedy 
 
 In the dark secret chambers of her skull 
 
 Was acting, that could give so dread a stress 
 
 To her cold lips, and fill with such a light 
 
 Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice 
 
 With such a sorrow ? Shade of Memory ! 
 
 Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, 
 
 By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house, 
 
 By this last temple, by the golden age, 
 
 206
 
 By great Apollo, thy dear foster-child, PART V. B 
 
 And by thyself, forlorn divinity, Canto I 
 
 The pale Omega of a wither'd race. 
 Let me behold, according as thou saidst. 
 What in thy brain so ferments to and fro ! 
 No sooner had this conjuration past 
 My devout lips, than side by side v^e stood 
 (Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine) 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
 Far-sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 
 Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star. 
 Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs. 
 And saw what first I thought an Image huge, 
 Like to the Image pedestal'd so high 
 In Saturn's temple ; then Moneta's voice 
 Came brief upon mine ear — So Saturn sat 
 When he had lost his realms. Whereon there grew ' _» 
 A power witnm me oi enormous ken , ^v^'ir i ^ ,"- 
 
 vTo see as a God sees, and take the depth\ "^ ^ vAcj'^ 
 Of things as nimbly as the outward eye V ' 
 
 Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme 
 Of those few words hung vast before my mind 
 With half-unravel' d web. I set myself 
 Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see. 
 And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life 
 Was in this shrouded vale, — not so much air 
 As in the zoning of a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass ; 
 But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. 
 
 207
 
 PART V. B A stream went noiseless by, still deaden'd more 
 Canto I By reason of the fallen divinity 
 
 Spreading more shade ; the Naiad 'mid her reeds 
 
 Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 
 
 ^ Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went 
 
 No further than to where old Saturn's feet 
 
 Had rested, and there slept how long a sleep ! 
 
 Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground 
 
 His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
 
 Unsceptred, and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
 
 While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth, 
 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 
 ff It seem'd no force could wake him from his place 
 
 But there came one who, with a kindred hand, 
 
 Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
 
 With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
 
 Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne, 
 
 And griev'd I hearken'd. That divinity 
 
 Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood. 
 
 And with slow pace approach our fallen king. 
 
 Is Thea, softest-natured of our brood. 
 
 I mark'd the Goddess, in fair statuary 
 
 Surpassing wan Moneta by the head. 
 
 And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears. 
 
 There was a listening fear in her regard. 
 
 As if calamity had but begun ; 
 
 As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
 
 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
 
 208
 
 One hand she press'd upon that aching spot PART V. B 
 
 Where beats the human heart, as if just there,. Canto I 
 
 Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 
 
 The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
 
 She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear 
 
 Leaning with parted lips some words she spake 
 
 In solemn tenor and deep organ-tone ; 
 
 Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 
 
 Would come in this-like accenting ; how frail 
 
 To that large utterance of the early gods ! 
 
 H Saturn, look up ! and for what, poor lost king ? 
 
 I have no comfort for thee ; no, not one ; 
 
 I cannot cry, Wherefore thus sleepest thou ? 
 
 For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth 
 
 Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God. 
 
 And Ocean, too, with all its solemn noise, 
 
 Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
 
 Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
 
 Thy thunder, captious at the new command. 
 
 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
 
 And thy sharp lightning, in unpractised hands, 
 
 Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
 
 With such remorseless speed still come new woes. 
 
 That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
 
 Saturn ! sleep on : me thoughtless, why should I 
 
 Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
 
 Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
 
 Saturn ! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep. 
 
 fl As when upon a tranced summer-night 
 
 o 209
 
 PART V. B Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
 Canto I Dream, and so dream all night without a noise. 
 Save from one gradual solitary gust. 
 Swelling upon the silence, dying off. 
 As if the ebbing air had but one wave. 
 So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
 She prest her fair large forehead to the earth, 
 Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls 
 A soft and silken net for Saturn's feet. 
 Long, long these two were postured motionless, 
 Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave 
 Of their own power. A long awful time 
 I look'd upon them : still they were the same ; 
 The frozen God still bending to the earth, 
 And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet ; 
 Moneta silent. Without stay or prop 
 But my own weak mortality, I bore 
 The load of this eternal quietude. 
 The unchanging gloom and the three fixed shapes 
 Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon ; 
 For by my burning brain I measured sure 
 Her silver seasons shedded on the night. 
 And every day by day methought I grew 
 More gaunt and ghostly. Oftentimes I pray'd 
 Intense, that death would take me from the vale 
 And all its burthens ; gasping with despair 
 Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself, 
 Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes, 
 And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone, 
 
 210
 
 And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, PART V. B 
 
 And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. Canto I 
 
 ^ As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves, 
 
 Fills forest-dells with a pervading air, 
 
 Known to the woodland nostril, so the words 
 
 Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around, 
 
 Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks, 
 
 And to the windings of the foxes' hole. 
 
 With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent 
 
 Strange musings to the solitary Pan. 
 
 Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd up 
 
 And buried from all godlike exercise 
 
 Of influence benign on planets pale, 
 
 And peaceful sway upon man's harvesting. 
 
 And all those acts which Deity supreme 
 
 Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail ; 
 
 Moan, brethren, moan ; for lo, the rebel spheres 
 
 Spin round ; the stars their ancient courses keep ; 
 
 Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth. 
 
 Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon ; 
 
 Still buds the tree, and still the seashores murmur ; 
 
 There is no death in all the universe, 
 
 No smell of death. — ^There shall be death. Moan, moan ; 
 
 Moan, Cybele, moan : for thy pernicious babes 
 
 Have changed a god into an aching palsy. 
 
 Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left ; 
 
 Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. 
 
 Oh ! oh ! the pain, the pain of feebleness ; 
 
 Moan, moan, for still I thaw ; or give me help, 
 
 211
 
 PART V. B Throw down those imps, and give me victory. 
 Canto I Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown 
 Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival, 
 From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled clouds ; 
 Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
 Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
 Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
 Of the sky-children. So he feebly ceased, 
 With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause, 
 Methought I heard some old man of the earth 
 Bewailing earthly loss ; nor could my eyes 
 And ears act with that unison of sense 
 Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form, 
 And dolorous accent from a tragic harp 
 With large-limb'd visions. More I scrutinised. 
 Still fix'd he sat beneath the sable trees, 
 Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms, 
 With leaves all hush'd ; his awful presence there. 
 Now all was silent, gave a deadly lie 
 To what I erewhile heard : only his lips 
 Trembled amid the white curls of his beard ; 
 They told the truth, though round the snowy locks 
 Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven 
 A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose. 
 And stretched her white arm through the hollow dark, 
 Pointing some whither : whereat he too rose. 
 Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea 
 To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight. 
 They melted from my sight into the woods ; 
 
 212
 
 Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, These twain PART V^ B 
 
 Are speeding to the families of grief, Canto I 
 
 Where roof'd in by black rocks they waste in pain 
 
 And darkness for no hope. And she spake on, 
 
 As ye may read who can unwearied pass 
 
 Onward from the Antichamber of this dream, 
 
 Where, even at the open doors, awhile 
 
 I must delay, and glean my memory 
 
 Of her high praise — perhaps no further dare. 
 
 213
 
 PART V. B MORTAL, that thou may'st understand aright, 
 Canto II I humanise my sayings to thine ear, 
 
 Making comparisons of earthly things ; 
 
 Or thou might'st better listen to the wind. 
 
 Whose language is to thee a barren noise. 
 
 Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees. 
 
 In melancholy realms big tears are shed, 
 
 More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
 
 Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe. 
 
 The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound. 
 
 Groan for the old allegiance once more, 
 
 Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. 
 
 But one of the whole eagle-brood stiU keeps 
 
 His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty : 
 
 Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
 
 StiU sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up 
 
 From Man to the Sun's God — yet unsecure. 
 
 For as upon the earth dire prodigies 
 
 Fright and perplex, so also shudders he ; 
 
 Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's Even screech, 
 
 Or the familiar visitings of one 
 
 Upon the first toll of his passing bell, 
 
 Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
 
 But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve. 
 
 Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
 
 Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold. 
 
 And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks. 
 
 Glared a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts. 
 
 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
 
 214
 
 And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds PART V. B 
 
 Flush angerly ; when he would taste the wreaths Canto II 
 
 Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills, 
 
 Instead of sweets his ample palate takes 
 
 Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick. 
 
 Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West, 
 
 After the full completion of fair day, 
 
 For rest divine upon exalted couch, 
 
 And slumber in the arms of melody, 
 
 He paces through the pleasant hours of ease. 
 
 With strides colossal, on from hall to hall, 
 
 WTiile far within each aisle and deep recess 
 
 His winged minions in close clusters stand 
 
 Amaz'd, and full of fear ; like anxious men. 
 
 Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops, 
 
 When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 
 
 Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 
 
 Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods, 
 
 Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear. 
 
 Is sloping to the threshold of the West. 
 
 Thither we tend. II Now in clear light I stood. 
 
 Relieved from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne 
 
 Was sitting on a square-edged polish'd stone. 
 
 That in its lucid depth reflected pure 
 
 Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on 
 
 From stately nave to nave, from viiult to vault, 
 
 Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, 
 
 And diamond-paned lustrous long arcades. 
 
 Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion ; 
 
 215
 
 PART V. B His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, 
 Canto II And gave a roar as if of earthly fire, 
 
 That scared away the meek ethereal hours, 
 
 And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared. 
 
 216
 
 SONNET
 
 MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold 
 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 
 That deep brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Looked at each other Avith a wild surmise — 
 
 Silent upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 EXPLICIT 
 218
 
 TABLE OF YEARS
 
 Page 
 1 815 HOW many bards gild the lapses of 
 
 time ...... 120 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 218 
 
 1 816 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry . 
 Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly 
 
 Solitude ! If I must with thee dwell 
 To one who has been long in city pent 
 Many the wonders I this day have seen 
 Keen fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 
 
 there ..... 
 Small, busy flames play through the fresh 
 
 laid coals .... 
 Great spirits now on earth are sojourning 
 The poetry of earth is never dead . 
 What is more gentle than a wind in sum 
 
 mer ..... 
 
 1 stood tip-toe upon a little hill 
 
 30 
 125 
 
 119 
 
 121 
 
 118 
 
 119 
 
 118 
 122 
 120 
 
 33 
 21 
 
 1 8 17 After dark vapours have oppress'd our 
 
 plains . . , . . .126 
 
 O Thou, whose mighty palace roof doth 
 
 hang ...... 129 
 
 O Sorrow ...... 132 
 
 1818 O thou ! whose face hath felt the Winter's 
 
 wind . . . . . .164 
 
 No ! those days are gone away . .154 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone . . -153 
 220
 
 Page 
 
 1818 The stranger lighted from his steed . . 75 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! . .69 
 O golden-tongued Romance, with serene 
 
 lute ! . . . . . .121 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 122 
 Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb 1 23 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year . 126 
 Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful 
 
 Maia . . . . .128 
 
 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! . .48 
 
 Ever let the fancy roam . . .147 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth . . 151 
 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale . .166 
 
 1 819 St Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! . 76 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell ... 70 
 One morn before me were three figures seen 161 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness . 142 
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist . 159 
 Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
 
 tell : 125 
 
 As Hermes once took to his feathers light 124 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms . 90 
 
 O soft embalmer of the still midnight . 124 
 O goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers 
 
 wrung ..... 144 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
 
 pains . . . . . .138 
 
 Upon a time, before the faery broods . 92 
 
 221
 
 Page 
 
 1 8 19 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness . 157 
 I cry your mercy — pity — ^love ! aye — ^love. 123 
 Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they 
 
 weave ...... 198 
 
 1820 Bright Star ! would I were stedfast as thou 
 
 art 18 
 
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