Am I not cruelly wrong'd? Believe, believe
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave
With my own fancies garlands of sweet life,
Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife!
I may not be thy love : I am forbidden—
Indeed I am—thwarted, affrighted, chidden,
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath.
Twice hast thou asked whither I went: henceforth
Ask me no more ! I may not utter it,
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit
Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die;
We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought!
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught
In trammels of perverse deliciousness.
No, no, that shall not be : thee will I bless,
And bid a long adieu."

The Carian
No word return'd : both lovelorn, silent, wan,
Into the valleys green together went.
Far wandering, they were perforce content
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily
Pored on its hazel cirque of shredded leaves.

Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme:
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem
Truth the best music in a first-born song.
Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere long,
And thou shalt aid—hast thou not aided me?
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity
Has been thy meed for many thousand years;
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,
Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester ;—
Forgetting the old tale.

He did not stir
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.
A little onward ran the very stream
By which he took his first soft poppy dream;
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant
A crescent he had carved, and round it spent

His skill in little stars. The teeming tree
Had swoll'n and green'd the pious character,
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope;
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,
Fly in the air where his had never been—
And yet he knew it not.

O treachery!
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye
With all his sorrowing? He sees her not
But who so stares on him? His sister sure!
Peona of the woods !—Can she endure ?—
Impossible—how dearly they embrace!
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face;
It is no treachery.

"Dear brother mine!
Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine
When all great Latinos so exalt will be?
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store
of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull
The flowers of autumn for your coronals.
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls;
And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame,
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame
To see ye thus,—not very, very sad?
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad:
O feel as if it were a common day;
Free-voiced as one who never was away.
No tongue shall ask, whence come ye i but ye shall
Be gods of your own rest imperial.
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry
Into the hours that have pass'd us by,
Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.
O Hermes! on this very night will be
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light;
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight

Good visions in the air,—whence will befal,

As say these sages, health perpetual

To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,

In Dian's face they read the gentle lore:

Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.

Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.

Many upon thy death have ditties made;

And many, even now, their foreheads shade

With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.

New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,

And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows,

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse

This wayward brother to his rightful joys!

His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise

His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray,

To lure—Endymion, dear brother, say

What ails thee?" He could bear no more, and so

Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,

And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said:

"I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!

My only visitor ! not ignorant though,

That those deceptions which for pleasure go

'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:

But there are higher ones I may not see,

If impiously an earthly realm I take. •

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake

Night after night, and day by day, until

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.

Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me

More happy than betides mortality.

A hermit young, I 'll live in mossy cave,

Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave

Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;

For to thy tongue will I all health confide.

And for my sake, let this young maid abide

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,

Peona, mayst return to me. I own

This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl,

Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair!

Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share

This sister's love with me?" Like one resign'd

And bent by circumstances, and thereby blind

In self-commitment, thus, that meek unknown:

"Ay, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,

Of jubilee to Dian :—truth I heard!

Well then, I see there is no little bird,

Tender soever, but is Jove's own care.

Long have I sought for rest, and unaware,

Behold I find it! so exalted too!

So after my own heart! I knew, I knew

There was a place untenanted in it;

In that same void white Chastity shall sit,

And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.

With sanest lips I vow me to the number

Of Dian's sisterhood ; and kind lady,

With thy good help, this very night shall see

My future days to her fane consecrate."

As feels a dreamer what doth most create His own particular fright, so these three felt: Or like one who, in after ages, knelt To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine After a little sleep : or when in mine Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends Who know him not. Each diligently bends Towards common thoughts and things for very fear; Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, By thinking it a thing of yes and no, That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last Endymion said : "Are not our fates all cast? Why stand we here i Adieu, ye tender pair! Adieu!" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot His eyes went after them, until they got Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, In one swift moment, would what then he saw Engulf for ever. "Stay !" he cried, " ah, stay! Turn, damsels ! hist! one word I have to say: Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. It is a thing I dote on : so I 'd fain, Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, Into those holy groves that silent are Behind great Dian's temple. I 'll be yon, At vesper's earliest twinkle—they are gone—

But once, once, once again—" At this he prest
His hands against his face, and then did rest
His head upon a mossy hillock green
And so remain'd as he a corpse had been
All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted
With the slow move of time,—sluggish and weary
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary,
Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose,
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 appeared, as if perchance,
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed
Gave utterance as he enter'd: "Ha !" I 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,

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