And, slowly as that very river flows,
Walk'd towards the temple-grove with this lament: "Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall Before the serene father of them all
Bows down his summer head below the west. Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, But at the setting I must bid adieu
To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour-roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe I am but rightly served." So saying, he Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature's holy countenance, Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlihed Gave utterance as he enter'd: "Ha!" he said, "King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, And the Promethean clay by thief endued, By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
Myself to things of light from infancy; And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, Is sure enough to make a mortal man Grow impious." So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found: Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd Beyond the reach of music: for the choir Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight By chilly-finger'd spring. Unhappy wight! "Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here! What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?" Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand Press'd, saying: "Sister, I would have command, If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, To Endymion's amaze: "By Cupid's dove, And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!" And as she spake, into her face there came, Light, as reflected from a silver flame: Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day Dawn'd blue, and full of love. Ay, he beheld Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld Her lucid bow, continuing thus: "Drear, drear Has our delaying been; but foolish fear Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-for change Be spiritualised. Peona, we shall range These forests, and to thee they safe shall be As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee
To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night: Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
They vanish'd far away!- Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.
ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR.
"I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised me with a real authenticated lock of Milton's hair. I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here it is-as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book." Jan. 1818.
HIEF of organic numbers!
Old Scholar of the the Spheres!
Thy spirit never slumbers,
But rolls about our ears
For ever and for ever!
O what a mad endeavour
Worketh He,
Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
How heavenward thou soundest !
Live Temple of sweet noise, And Discord unconfoundest, Giving Delight new joys, And Pleasure nobler pinions: O where are thy dominions?
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