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
Phæbe, his passion ! joyous she upheld
Her lucid bow, continuing thus: “Drear, drear
Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear
With held me first; and then decrees of fate;
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlooked-for change
Be spiritualised. Peona, we shall range
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be
As was thy cradle ; hither shalt thou flee
To meet us many a time.” Next Cynthia bright
Peona kissed, and blessed with fair good night :
Her brother kissed her too, and knelt adown
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,
Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
They vanished far away !-Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.

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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
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I dote upon thee-call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honeyed roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells and incantation.





CHAT though, for showing truth to flattered

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait ?

Think you he naught but prison walls did see
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key ?
Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate !
In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,

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
Of my delighted fancy-I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

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.
YMPH of the downward smile, and sidelong

In what diviner moments of the day

Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ?
Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance

Of sober thought? Or when starting away,

With careless robe, to meet the morning ray,
Thou spar’st the flowers in thy mazy dance ?
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,

And so remain, because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely

That I can never tell what mood is best.
I shall as soon pronounce which grace more neatly

Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

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O ,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep

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