Ay, even as dead-still as a marble man, Frozen in that old tale Arabian.
Who whispers him so pantingly and close? Peona, his sweet sister: of all those,
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade A yielding up, a cradling on her care. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams,- Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small; Until they came to where these streamlets fall, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. A little shallop, floating there hard by, Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,— Peona guiding, through the water straight, Towards a bowery island opposite; Which gaining presently, she steered light Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, Where nested was an arbour, overwove By many a summer's silent fingering; To whose cool bosom she was used to bring
Her playmates, with their needle broidery, And minstrel memories of times gone by.
So she was gently glad to see him laid Under her favourite bower's quiet shade, On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest Peona's busy hand against his lips,
And still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps A patient watch over the stream that creeps Windingly by it, so the quiet maid
Held her in peace: so that a whispering blade Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling
Down in the bluebells, or a wren light rustling Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard.
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfined Restraint! imprison'd liberty! great key To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves And moonlight; ay, to all the mazy world Of silvery enchantment!-who, upfurl'd
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,
But renovates and lives?—Thus, in the bower, Endymion was calm'd to life again.
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, He said: "I feel this thine endearing love All through my bosom: thou art as a dove Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings About me; and the pearliest dew not brings Such morning incense from the fields of May, As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray From those kind eyes, the very home and haunt Of sisterly affection. Can I want
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears? Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears That, any longer, I will pass my days Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall
Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll
The fair grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow: And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, Again I'll linger in a sloping mead To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet! And, if thy lute is here, softly entreat My soul to keep in its resolved course."
Hereat Peona, in their silver source,
Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way
In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay More subtle-cadenced, more forest wild
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child; And nothing since has floated in the air
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand; For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd The quick invisible strings, even though she saw Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw
Before the deep intoxication.
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon Her self-possession-swung the lute aside, And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hide That thou dost know of things mysterious,
Immortal, starry; such alone could thus Weigh down thy nature.
Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen Her naked limbs among the alders green; And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace Something more high perplexing in thy face!"
Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand, And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so bland
And merry in our meadows? How is this? Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss! Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange?
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise? Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize,
That toiling years would put within my grasp, That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gasp No man e'er panted for a mortal love.
So all have set my heavier grief above
These things which happen. Rightly have they done :
I, who still saw the horizontal sun
Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the
Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd My spear aloft, as signal for the chase- I, who, for very sport of heart, would race With my own steed from Araby; pluck down A vulture from his towery perching; frown A lion into growling, loth retire—
To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire, And sink thus low! but I will ease my breast Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest.
"This river does not see the naked sky,
Till it begins to progress silverly Around the western border of the wood, Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood
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