Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and
nods;

And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440
Of his delicious lady. He who died
For soaring too audacious in the sun,
When that same treacherous wax began to
run,

Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
To that fair shadow'd passion pulsed its

way

Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,
He could not help but kiss her: then he

grew

Awhile forgetful of all beauty save

450

Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe

This murky phantasm! thou contented seem'st

Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st What horrors may discomfort thee and

me.

469

Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-
treachery! -
Yet did she merely weep her gentle soul
Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole
In tenderness, would I were whole in love!
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,
Even when I feel as true as innocence?

I do, I do. What is this soul then?
Whence

Came it? It does not seem my own, and I Have no self-passion or identity.

Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?

By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit

479

Alone about the dark - Forgive me, sweet: Shall we away?' He roused the steeds;

they beat

own tongue,

I have no dædale heart; why is it wrung 459 To desperation? Is there nought for me, Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?'

These words awoke the stranger of dark

tresses:

Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion

blesses

With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawn'd from

underneath.

490

So witless of their doom, that verily 'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts

to see;

Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved or toy'd

Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd.

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon

streak,

The moon put forth a little diamond peak,

At random flies; they are the proper home
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journey'd in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well

Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall;

Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 529
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is

won.

Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him; and from an urn,

Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught

Young Semele such richness never quaff'd In her maternal longing. Happy gloom! Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom

Of health by due; where silence dreariest Is most articulate; where hopes infest; 540 Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep

Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul! Pregnant with such a den to save the whole In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! For, never since thy griefs and woes began, Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne

With dangerous speed: and so he did not

all good

See, through the trees, a little river go 680 All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring, And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,

Cresses that grow where no man may them

see,

And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag:
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,
That thou mayst always know whither I

roam,

When it shall please thee in our quiet home

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak;

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, - 690 For yet the past doth prison me. The

rill,

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn, And thou shalt feed them from the squir

rel's barn.

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.

Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,

And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.
I will entice this crystal rill to trace
Love's silver name upon the meadow's

face.

700