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      Of passion from the heart!”–

      Upon a bough

      He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now

      Thirst for another love: O impious,

      That he can even dream upon it thus!–

      Thought he, “Why am I not as are the dead,

      Since to a woe like this I have been led

      Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?

      Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee

      By Juno’s smile I turn not–no, no, no–

      While the great waters are at ebb and flow.–

      I have a triple soul! O fond pretence–

      For both, for both my love is so immense,

      I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.”

      And so he groan’d, as one by beauty slain.

      The lady’s heart beat quick, and he could see

      Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.

      He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,

      Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;

      With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes

      Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.

      “Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I

      Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity!

      O pardon me, for I am full of grief–

      Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!

      Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith

      I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith

      Thou art my executioner, and I feel

      Loving and hatred, misery and weal,

      Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,

      And all my story that much passion slew me;

      Do smile upon the evening of my days:

      And, for my tortur’d brain begins to craze,

      Be thou my nurse; and let me understand

      How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.–

      Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.

      Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament

      Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern’d earth

      Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth

      Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst

      To meet oblivion.”–As her heart would burst

      The maiden sobb’d awhile, and then replied:

      “Why must such desolation betide

      As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks

      Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks

      Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,

      Schooling its half-fledg’d little ones to brush

      About the dewy forest, whisper tales?–

      Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails

      Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt,

      Methinks ’twould be a guilt–a very guilt–

      Not to companion thee, and sigh away

      The light–the dusk–the dark–till break of day!”

      “Dear lady,” said Endymion, “’tis past:

      I love thee! and my days can never last.

      That I may pass in patience still speak:

      Let me have music dying, and I seek

      No more delight–I bid adieu to all.

      Didst thou not after other climates call,

      And murmur about Indian streams?”–Then she,

      Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,

      For pity sang this roundelay —

      “O Sorrow,

      Why dost borrow

      The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?–

      To give maiden blushes

      To the white rose bushes?

      Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

      “O Sorrow,

      Why dost borrow

      The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?–

      To give the glow-worm light?

      Or, on a moonless night,

      To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?

      “O Sorrow,

      Why dost borrow

      The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?–

      To give at evening pale

      Unto the nightingale,

      That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

      “O Sorrow,

      Why dost borrow

      Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?–

      A lover would not tread

      A cowslip on the head,

      Though he should dance from eve till peep of day–

      Nor any drooping flower

      Held sacred for thy bower,

      Wherever he may sport himself and play.

      “To Sorrow,

      I bade good-morrow,

      And thought to leave her far away behind;

      But cheerly, cheerly,

      She loves me dearly;

      She is so constant to me, and so kind: I would deceive her

      And so leave her,

      But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

      “Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,

      I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide

      There was no one to ask me why I wept,–

      And so I kept

      Brimming the water-lily cups with tears

      Cold as my fears.

      “Beneath

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