Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through.

Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;

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So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver

The happy chance: so happy, I was fain

To follow it upon the open plain,

And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!

A wonder, fair as any I have told—

The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,

Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap

Through the cool depth.-It moved as if to flee

I started up, when lo! refreshfully,

There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,

Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,
Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,

Bathing my spirit in a new delight.

Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss
Alone preserved me from the drear abyss

Of death, for the fair form had gone again.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth

On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth,

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'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.
How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure
Of weary days, made deeper exquisite,
By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,
Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill :
And a whole age of lingering moments crept
Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept
Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.
Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;
Once more been tortured with renewed life.
When last the wintry gusts gave over strife

With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies
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,

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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,

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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

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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:

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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;

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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

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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."

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.

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