How he does love me! His poor temples beat
To the very tune of love-how sweet, sweet, sweet! Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die; Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell.
Its heavy pressure, and will press at least My lips to thine, that they may richly feast Until we taste the life of love again.
What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain!
I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive; And so long absence from thee doth bereave
My soul of any rest; yet must I hence: Yet, can I not to starry eminence
Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own Myself to thee. Ah, dearest! do not groan, Or thou wilt force me from this secresy, And I must blush in heaven. O that I Had done it already! that the dreadful smiles At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, Had waned from Olympus' solemn height, And from all serious Gods; that our delight Was quite forgotten, save of us alone?
And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes: Yet must I be a coward! Horror rushes Too palpable before me-the sad look Of Jove-Minerya's start-no bosom shook With awe of purity-no Cupid pinion In reverence veil'd—my crystalling dominion Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! But what is this to love? Oh! I could fly With thee into the ken of heavenly powers,
So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce— Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown- Oh! I do think that I have been alone In chastity! yes, Pallas has been sighing, While every eve saw me my hair uptying With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love! I was as vague as solitary dove,
Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss
Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,
An immortality of passion's thine: Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; And I will tell thee stories of the sky, And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. My happy love will overwing all bounds! O let me melt into thee! let the sounds
Of our close voices marry at their birth;
Let us entwine hoveringly! O dearth
Of human words! roughness of mortal speech! Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach
Thine honey'd tongue-lute-breathings which I gasp To have thee understand, now while I clasp Thee thus, and weep for fondness-I am pain'd, Endymion: wo! wo! is grief contain'd
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ?”. Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife Melted into a languor. He return'd
Entranced vows and tears.
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, For the mere sake of truth; as 't is a ditty Not of these days, but long ago 't was told By a cavern wind unto a forest old;
And then the forest told it in a dream
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam A poet caught as he was journeying To Phœbus' shrine; and in it he did fling His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, And after, straight in that inspired place
sang the story up into the air,
Giving it universal freedom. There
Has it been ever sounding for those ears Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers
Yon sentinel stars; and he who listens to it
Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it : For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, Made fiercer by a fear lest any part
Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. As much as here is penn'd doth always find A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain; Anon the strange voice is upon the wane- And 't is but echoed from departing sound, That the fair visitant at last unwound Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep.- Thus the tradition of the gusty deep.
Now turn we to our former chroniclers. Endymion awoke, that grief of hers Sweet paining on his ear; he sickly guess'd How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd His empty arms together, hung his head,
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed Sat silently. Love's madness he had known : Often with more than tortured lion's groan Moanings had burst from him; but now that rage Had pass'd away: no longer did he wage A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars. No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: The lyre of his soul Æolian tuned Forgot all violence, and but communed With melancholy thought: O he had swoon'd Drunken from pleasure's nipple! and his love Henceforth was dove-like.-Loath was he to move From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 'T was with slow, languid paces, and face hid In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean Over eclipsing eyes and at the last It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, O'erstudded with a thousand, thousand pearls, And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls, Of every shape and size, even to the bulk In which whales arbor close, to brood and sulk Against an endless storm. Moreover too, Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue,
Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder
On all his life his youth, up to the day When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, He stepp'd upon his shepherd throne: the look
Of his white palace in wild forest nook, And all the revels he had lorded there :
Each tendér maiden whom he once thought fair, With every friend and fellow-woodlander- Pass'd like a dream before him.
Then the spur Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans: That wondrous night: the great Pan-festival : His sister's sorrow and his wanderings all, Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd: Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd
Iligh with excessive love. "And now," thought he, How long must I remain in jeopardy
Of blank amazements that amaze no more? Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core, All other depths are shallow: essences, Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, Meant but to fertilise my earthly root,
And make my branches lift a golden fruit Into the bloom of heaven: other light, Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark!
My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells Of noises far away ?-list!"-Hereupon He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, On either side outgush'd, with misty spray, A copious spring; and both together dash'd Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise
« НазадПродовжити » |