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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 drowned Beyond the reach of music: for the choir Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar 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 gathered at midnight By chilly-fingered 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 Pressed, 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 swelled ampler, in display Full golden: in her eyes a brighter day
Dawned blue and full of love. Ay, he beheld
AD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprise : But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.
I'll gather some by spells and incantation.
WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH
HUNT LEFT PRISON.
CHAT though, for showing truth to flattered
In his immortal spirit, been as free
Think you he naught but prison walls did see
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air :
To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair
When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew ?
A few of them have ever been the food
These will in throngs before my mind intrude :
But no confusion, do disturbance rude Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store ;
The song of birds—the whisp'ring of the leavesThe voice of waters, the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound-and thousand others more, That distance of recognisance bereaves,
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
TO G. A. W.
Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,
And so remain, because thou listenest:
That I can never tell what mood is best.
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep