Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair! His eyes went after them, until they got And so remain'd as he a corpse had been All the long day; save when he scantly lifted With the slow move of time,-sluggish and weary, Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose, And, slowly as that very river flows, Walk'd towards the temple-grove with this lament: "Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall Before the serene father of them all Bows down his summer head below the west. But at the setting I must bid adieu To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor-roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, wo, What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe I am but rightly served." So saying, he Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature's holy countenance, Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlihed Gave utterance as he enter'd: "Ha!" I said, "King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, And the Promethean clay by thief endued, By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed Myself to things of light from infancy; And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, Is sure enough to make a mortal man Grow impious." So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found; Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd Beyond the reach of music: for the choir Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!" These forests, and to thee they safe shall be As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night : Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. |