Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyingly-send honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! O charitable Echo! hear, and sing This ditty to her!-tell her'-So I stayed My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, Stood stupified with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipped, and then these accents came: 'Endymion! the cave is secreter
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' At that oppressed, I hurried in.-Ah! where Are those swift moments! Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed
Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears; ay, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look; but yet, I'll say 'tis nought- And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,
Already, a more healthy countenance?
By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car."
This said, he rose, faint-smiling, like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launched from land.
O SOVEREIGN Power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, Struggling, and blood, and shrieks-all dimly fades Into some backward corner of the brain;
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain. The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! Many old rotten-timbered boats there be Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, And golden-keeled is left unlaunched and dry.
But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly About the great Athenian admiral's mast? What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care ?—Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers,-sighing,-weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, Doth more avail than these: the silver flow Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully Must such conviction come upon his head, Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, The path of love and poesy. But rest, In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear Than to be crushed in striving to uprear Love's standard on the battlements of song. So once more days and nights aid me along, Like legioned soldiers.
Brain-sick shepherd prince!
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice? Or have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks; Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes Of the lone wood-cutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring,
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose-tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; And, in the middle, there is softly pight
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings
There must be surely charactered strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.
Lightly this little herald flew aloft, Followed by glad Endymion's clasped hands: Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. It seemed he flew, the way so easy was; And like a new-born spirit did he pass Through the green evening quiet in the sun,
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen,
Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, Until it reached a splashing fountain's side That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever poured Unto the temperate air; then high it soared
And, downward, suddenly began to dip, As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch Even with mealy gold the waters clear. But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer disturbed his gloomy rest? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth! Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin-light to the deep; my grotto-sands, Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands By my diligent springs: my level lilies, shells, My charming-rod, my potent river spells; Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me,-for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. But woe is me, I am but as a child
« ÎnapoiContinuă » |