The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies - John Keats

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sat a weeping: what enamour’d bride,

      Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,

      But hides and shrouds

      Beneath dark palm trees by a river side?

      “And as I sat, over the light blue hills

      There came a noise of revellers: the rills

      Into the wide stream came of purple hue–

      ’Twas Bacchus and his crew!

      The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills

      From kissing cymbals made a merry din–

      ’Twas Bacchus and his kin!

      Like to a moving vintage down they came,

      Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame;

      All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,

      To scare thee, Melancholy!

      O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!

      And I forgot thee, as the berried holly

      By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,

      Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:–

      I rush’d into the folly!

      “Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,

      Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,

      With sidelong laughing;

      And little rills of crimson wine imbrued

      His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white

      For Venus’ pearly bite:

      And near him rode Silenus on his ass,

      Pelted with flowers as he on did pass

      Tipsily quaffing.

      “Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!

      So many, and so many, and such glee?

      Why have ye left your bowers desolate,

      Your lutes, and gentler fate?–

      ‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,

      A conquering!

      Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,

      We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:–

      Come hither, lady fair, and joined be

      To our wild minstrelsy!’

      “Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!

      So many, and so many, and such glee?

      Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left

      Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?–

      ‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;

      For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,

      And cold mushrooms;

      For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;

      Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!–

      Come hither, lady fair, and joined be

      To our mad minstrelsy!’

      “Over wide streams and mountains great we went,

      And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,

      Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,

      With Asian elephants:

      Onward these myriads–with song and dance,

      With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance,

      Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,

      Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,

      Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil

      Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil:

      With toying oars and silken sails they glide,

      Nor care for wind and tide.

      “Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,

      From rear to van they scour about the plains;

      A three days’ journey in a moment done:

      And always, at the rising of the sun,

      About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,

      On spleenful unicorn.

      “I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown

      Before the vine-wreath crown!

      I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and sing

      To the silver cymbals’ ring!

      I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce

      Old Tartary the fierce!

      The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail,

      And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;

      Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,

      And all his priesthood moans;

      Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale.–

      Into these regions came I following him,

      Sick hearted, weary–so I took a whim

      To stray away into these forests drear

      Alone, without a peer:

      And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

      “Young stranger!

      I’ve been a ranger

      In search of pleasure throughout every clime:

      Alas, ’tis not for me!

      Bewitch’d I sure must be,

      To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

      “Come then, Sorrow!

      Sweetest Sorrow!

      Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:

      I thought to leave thee

      And deceive thee,

      But now of all the world I love thee best.

      “There is not one,

      No, no, not one

      But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;

      Thou art her mother, And her brother,

      Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.”

      O what a sigh she gave in finishing,

      And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!

      Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;

      And listened to the wind that now did stir

      About the crisped oaks full drearily,

      Yet with as sweet a softness as might be

      Remember’d from its velvet summer song.

      At last he said: “Poor lady, how thus long

      Have I been able to endure that voice?

      Fair Melody! kind Syren! I’ve no choice;

      I must be thy sad servant evermore:

      I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.

      Alas, I must not think–by Phœbe, no!

      Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?

      Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?

      O thou could’st foster me beyond the brink

      Of recollection! make my watchful care

      Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!

      Do gently murder half my soul, and I

      Shall feel the other half so utterly!–

      I’m giddy at that cheek so fair and

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