Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;
As now 't is done to thee, Endymion. Hence
Was I in no wise startled. So recline
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,
Alive with sparkles — never, I aver,
Since Ariadne was a vintager,
So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears
Were high about Pomona: here is cream,
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;
Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd
For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums
Ready to melt between an infant's gums:
And here is manna pick'd from Syrian
trees,
his head. I was half glad,
But my poor mistress went distract and mad,
When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flew To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew
Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;
Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd
Each summer-time to life. Lo! this is he,
That same Adonis, safe in the privacy
Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 480
Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen
did weep
Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower
Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power,
Medicined death to a lengthened drowsi
Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradu- Of these first minutes? The unchariest ally
The impatient doves, uprose the floating On this delight; for, every minute's space,
The streams with changed magic interlace:
Sometimes like delicatest lattices,
Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping
trees,
Up went the hum celestial. High afar
The Latmian saw them minish into naught;
And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he
caught
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.
When all was darken'd, with Etnean throe
The earth closed
gave a solitary moan
And left him once again in twilight lone.
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and
With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and Through unknown things; till exhaled as
Of sudden exaltation: but, 'Alas!'
Said he, will all this gush of feeling pass
Away in solitude? And must they wane,
Like melodies upon a sandy plain,
Without an echo? Then shall I be left
So sad, so melancholy, so bereft !
Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,
Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward My breath of life, where art thou? High
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark
Over his nested young: but all is dark
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount
Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count
Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll
Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll
Is in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyes
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies:
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet,
Although the sun of poesy is set,
These lovers did embrace, and we must
weep
That there is no old power left to steep
A quill immortal in their joyous tears.
Long time in silence did their anxious fears
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