III. THE SLEEP OF ADONIS
After a thousand mazes overgone
At last with sudden step he came upon
A chamber, myrtle-walled, embowered high,
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,
And more of beautiful and strange beside;
For on a silken couch of rosy pride,
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest beauty,-fonder in fair sooth
Than sighs could fathom or contentment reach;
And coverlids, gold-tinted like the peach
Or ripe October's faded marigolds,
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds,
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light,
But rather giving them to the filled sight
Officiously. Sideway his face reposed
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed
By tenderest pressure a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout; just as the morning South
Disparts a dew-lipped rose. Above his head
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal, and round him grew
All tendrils green of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammelled fresh :
The vine of glossy sprout, the ivy mesh
Shading its Ethiop berries, and woodbine
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;
Convolvulus in streakèd vases flush,
The creeper mellowing for an autumn blush,
And virgin's bower, trailing airily;
With others of the sisterhood.
Stood serene Cupids, watching silently:
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings,
And ever and anon uprose to look
At the youth's slumber; while another took
A willow bough distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise
Rained violets upon his sleeping eyes.
IV. THE "QUEEN MOON"
Are then regalities all gilded masks ?
No there are throned seats unscalable
But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined,
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind.
O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in.
O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine;
Innumerable mountains rise and rise
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes.
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy-leaf
Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house. The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine-the myriad sea:
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.
V.—THE CAVE OF QUIETUDE
There lies a den,
Beyond the seeming confines of the space
Made for the soul to wander in and trace
Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart ;
And in these regions many a venomed dart
At random flies; they are the proper home
Of every ill the man is yet to come
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall;
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear
No sound so loud as when on curtained bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.
Just when the sufferer begins to burn,
Then it is free to him; and from an urn,
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught-
Young Semele such richness never quaft
In her maternal longing! Happy gloom!
Dark paradise! where pale becomes the bloom
Of health by due; where silence dreariest
Is most articulate; where hopes infest ;
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.
O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! 1
For, never since thy griefs and woes began,
Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude.
2. THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS
MILK for my sweet-arts, Bess! fur it mun be the time about now
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her paäils fro' the cow.
Eh tha be new to the plaäce-thou'rt gaäpin'— doesn't tha see
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' me?
Naäy to be sewer it be past 'er time. What maäkes 'er sa laäte?
Goa to the laäne at the back, an' looök thruf Maddison's gaäte!
1 Mount Latmus, in Caria, was the scene of Endymion's story.
Sweet-arts! Molly belike may 'a lighted to-night upo' one.
Sweet-arts! thanks to the Lord that I niver not listened to noän!
So I sits i' my oän armchair wi' my oän kettle theere o' the hob,
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the second, an' Steevie an' Rob.
Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou sees that i' spite o' the men
I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 'oonderd ayear to mysen;
Yis! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es ony lass i' the Shere,
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby; but, Robby, I seed thruf ya theere.
Feyther 'ud saäy I wur ugly es sin, an' I beänt not vaäin,
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaäin,
An' I wasn't sa plaäin i' pink ribbons, ye said I wur pretty i' pinks,
An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beänt sich a fool as ye thinks;
Ye was stroäkin ma down wi' the 'air, as I be astroäkin o' you,
But whiniver I looöked i' the glass I wur sewer that it couldn't be true;
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur pleasant to 'ear,
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 'oonderd a-year.
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