A chieftain king's; beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd To common lookers-on like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian :
But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry, Of logs piled solemnly. Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away !
Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed
To sudden veneration : women meek
Beckon❜d their sons to silence; while each cheek Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. Endymion too, without a forest peer,
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, Among his brothers of the mountain chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, And, after lifting up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From valleys where the pipe is never dumb; Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn :
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air; And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favour'd youth: Yea, every one attend! for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have not rains Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."
Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire; Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. Now while the earth was drinking it, and while Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile, And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang:
"O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth, Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now, By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan!
“O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year All its completions — be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine!
“Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown
By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O satyr king!
"O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers. A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge — see, Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows!
"Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity:
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan, Upon thy Mount Lycean!"
Even while they brought the burden to a close, A shout from the whole multitude arose,
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, Young companies nimbly began dancing To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgotten out of memory:
Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred Thermopyla its heroes not yet dead, But in old marbles ever beautiful.
High genitors, unconscious did they cull Time's sweet first-fruits - they danced to weariness, And then in quiet circles did they press The hillock turf, and caught the latter end Of some strange history, potent to send A young mind from its bodily tenement. Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent On either side; pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath Of Zephyr slew him, - Zephyr penitent, Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. The archers too, upon a wider plain, Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft, Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from this sad mood By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
Many might after brighter visions stare : After the Argonauts, in blind amaze Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
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