Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles :
So that we feel uplifted from the world,

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125

130

135

Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd. 140
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips

(128) In the manuscript we read a mountain Pine. (141) Compare Endymion, final couplet :

Peona went

Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.

(144) This was originally written in the manuscript, What fondleing and amourous nips; but the words are marked to be transposed.

First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs, 145
And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp,-the ravishment,-the wonder-
The darkness,-loneliness,-the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,

150

155

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:

Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.

Poor nymph,-poor Pan,-how he did weep to find,

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind

160

Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,

Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain.

What first inspir'd a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found.

A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool,

165

(151) Cancelled manuscript reading, So do they feel who pull; and in the next line, may for might.

(153) In the manuscript, and in the original edition, Fawns for Fauns.

(155) Cancelled manuscript reading, And curious garlands of flowers &c.

(156) The manuscript has sportive for sporting.

(159) In the manuscript, how did he weep.

The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,

A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;

But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

Coming ever to bless

The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,

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175

180

185

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

Full in the speculation of the stars.

Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

190

Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.

195

(174) We read fair for sad in the manuscript.

But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate :
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phœbus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels,
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal :

And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
And sooth'd them into slumbers full and deep.

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205

210

215

220

Soon they awoke clear ey'd : nor burnt with thirsting, 225
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

230

Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd
To see the brightness in each other's eyes;
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.

Therefore no lover did of anguish die :

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,

235

That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses: 240 Was there a poet born?-but now no more,

My wand'ring spirit must no farther soar.

(233) In the original edition, others'.

(242) The publication of Endymion in the following year gives an additional interest to this concluding passage, beginning at line 181. That the subject was already, as early as the summer of 1816, commending itself to Keats as one worth his ambition appears from this, for the book was out so early in 1817 that the sale was said to have "dropped" by the 29th of April (see the publishers' letter of that date in the Appendix). Thus, the delightful summer's day mentioned by Hunt (see page 7) cannot have been in 1817; but there is an extant letter to Charles Cowden Clarke, which will be found among the letters in this edition, and which mentions, under date 17 December 1816, a work entitled Endymion, as to be finished in one more attack." Perhaps this points to a rejected draft on a small scale, to which the foregoing poem was the introduction.