The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care?—Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers,-sighing,-weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden-snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully Must such conviction come upon his head, Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, The path of love and poesy. But rest, In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear Love's standard on the battlements of song. So once more days and nights aid me along, Like legion'd soldiers.
Brain-sick shepherd-prince! What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks; Counting his wo-worn minutes, by the strokes Of the lone wood-cutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering
Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose-tree
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; And, in the middle, there is softly pight A golden butterfly; upon whose wings There must be surely character'd strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.
Lightly this little herald flew aloft,
Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands;
From languor's sullen bands
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; And like a new-born spirit did he pass
Through the green evening quiet in the sun,
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. One track unseams
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen,
Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd, Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, And, downward, suddenly began to dip,
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch Even with mealy gold the waters clear. But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist
Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth! Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin-light to the deep; my grotto-sands, Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, My charming-rod, my potent river spells; Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me, for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. But wo is me, I am but as a child
To gladden thee; and all I dare to say
Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far In other regions, past the scanty bar
To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta’en From every wasting sigh, from every pain, Into the gentle bosom of thy love.
Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not.
I have a ditty for my hollow cell."
Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half-asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps, Thus breathed he to himself: "Whoso encamps To take a fancied city of delight,
O what a wretch is he! and when 't is his, After long toil and travelling, to miss
The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile! Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil: Another city doth he set about,
Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : Alas! he finds them dry and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds.
But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety,
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh,
All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to show
Where soil is men grow,
Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,
There is no depth to strike in: I can see Naught earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land— Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, Than be-I care not what. O meekest dove Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten times bright and fair! From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, Glance but one little beam of temper'd light Into my bosom, that the dreadful might And tyranny of love be somewhat scared! Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared, Would give a pang to jealous misery,
Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow
Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.
O be propitious, nor severely deem
My madness impious; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars
« 이전계속 » |