In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, And so he rested, on the lonely ground, Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake, And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay, Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey: 'Fair Hermes! crown'd with feathers, fluttering light, Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. I had a splendid dream of thee last night: 70 I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moau. I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks, And, swiftly as a bright Phœbean dart, Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art! Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?' 80 So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent Full of adoring tears and blandishment, And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane, Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. Into the green-recessed woods they flew; Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. Why this fair creature chose so fairly By the wayside to linger, we shall see; 201 But first 't is fit to tell how she could muse And dream, when in the serpent prisonhouse, Of all she list, strange or magnificent: How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went; Whether to faint Elysium, or where Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair; Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous bright! And will you leave me on the hills alone? And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, chain so sure: Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, Empty of immortality and bliss! Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know That finer spirits cannot breathe below 280 In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth, What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe My essence? What serener palaces, Where I may all my many senses please, And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease? It cannot be - Adieu!' So said, she rose Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose The amorous promise of her lone complain, Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires. 300 And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone, As those who, safe together met alone days, Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise |