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      Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes

      In pity of the shatter’d infant buds,–

      That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,

      My hunting cap, because I laugh’d and smil’d,

      Chatted with thee, and many days exil’d

      All torment from my breast;–’twas even then,

      Straying about, yet, coop’d up in the den

      Of helpless discontent,–hurling my lance

      From place to place, and following at chance,

      At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,

      And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck

      In the middle of a brook,–whose silver ramble

      Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,

      Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,

      Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave

      The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,–

      ‘Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock

      Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,

      Hung a lush scene of drooping weeds, and spread

      Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph’s home.

      “Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?”

      Said I, low voic’d: “Ah, whither! ’Tis the grot

      Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,

      Doth her resign; and where her tender hands

      She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:

      Or ’tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,

      And babbles thorough silence, till her wits

      Are gone in tender madness, and anon,

      Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone

      Of sadness. O that she would take my vows,

      And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,

      To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,

      Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,

      And weave them dyingly–send honey-whispers

      Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers

      May sigh my love unto her pitying!

      O charitable echo! hear, and sing

      This ditty to her!–tell her”–so I stay’d

      My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,

      Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,

      And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.

      Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name

      Most fondly lipp’d, and then these accents came:

      “Endymion! the cave is secreter

      Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir

      No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise

      Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys

      And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.”

      At that oppress’d I hurried in.–Ah! where

      Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled?

      I’ll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed

      Sorrow the way to death; but patiently

      Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;

      And come instead demurest meditation,

      To occupy me wholly, and to fashion

      My pilgrimage for the world’s dusky brink.

      No more will I count over, link by link,

      My chain of grief: no longer strive to find

      A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind

      Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,

      Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;

      What a calm round of hours shall make my days.

      There is a paly flame of hope that plays

      Where’er I look: but yet, I’ll say ’tis naught–

      And here I bid it die. Have not I caught,

      Already, a more healthy countenance?

      By this the sun is setting; we may chance

      Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.”

      Endymion Book II