bending

20 Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury 25 Had play'd upon my heels: I was lighthearted,

And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees
about them;

30 Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,

And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.

65 How silent comes the water round that bend;

Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows:1 blades of grass

Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

70 To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little

heads,

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 75 Temper'd with coolness. How they ever

wrestle

With their own sweet delight, and ever

nestle

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

1 willows

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 180 Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm
head outflew

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless

185 The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing

From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. 190 Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; Into some wond'rous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew

195 Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow

A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,

The poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he

won,

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely

queen

Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!

As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show

their keels,

Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels,
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and
clear,

That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:1
And lovely women were as fair and warm
220 As Venus looking sideways in alarm.2
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half-closed lattices to

cure

The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.

225 Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:

And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

Who feel their arms and breasts, and kiss and stare,

230 And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

Young men and maidens at each other

gaz'd

With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd

To see the brightness in each other's eyes;

1 Probably the statue Apollo Belvedere. 2 Probably the statue Venus de Medici,

blowing

In a green island, far from all men's knowing?

More healthful than the leafiness of dales? More secret than a nest of nightingales? More serene than Cordelia's countenance? 10 More full of visions than a high romance? What but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!

Low murmurer of tender lullabies!

Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!

15 Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses! Most happy listener! when the morning blesses

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

But what is higher beyond thought than
thee?

20 Fresher than berries of a mountain tree? More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?

What is it? And to what shall I compare

it?

It has a glory, and naught else can share it:

25 The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

Chasing away all worldliness and folly; Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

And sometimes like a gentle whispering 30 Of all the secrets of some wond 'rous thing That breathes about us in the vacant air; So that we look around with prying stare, Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,1

And catch soft floatings from a faintheard hymning;

35 To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, That is to crown our name when life is ended.

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,

40 And die away in ardent mutterings.

1 painting

A kind of laurel tree.