One’s senses with so dense a breathing stuffMight seem a work of pain; so not enough
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
Forgetful utterly of self-intent;
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
Then, like a new fledg’d bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
’Twas freedom! and at once I visited
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed.
No need to tell thee of them, for I see
That thou hast been a witness–it must be–
For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth,
By the melancholy corners of that mouth.
So I will in my story straightway pass
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair!
Why did poor Glaucus ever–ever dare
To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth!
I lov’d her to the very white of truth,
And she would not conceive it. Timid thing!
She fled me swift as seabird on the wing,
Round every isle, and point, and promontory,
From where large Hercules wound up his story
Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew
The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear:
Until ’twas too fierce agony to bear;
And in that agony, across my grief
It flash’d, that Circe might find some relief–
Cruel enchantress! So above the water
I rear’d my head, and look’d for Phœbus’ daughter.
Ææa’s isle was wondering at the moon:–
It seem’d to whirl around me, and a swoon
Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.
“When I awoke, ’twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees,
Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees.
How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre,
And over it a sighing voice expire.
It ceased–I caught light footsteps; and anon
The fairest face that morn e’er look’d upon
Push’d through a screen of roses. Starry Jove!
With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all
The range of flower’d Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: “Ah! Art awake?
O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid’s sake!
I am so oppress’d with joy! Why, I have shed
An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead;
And now I find thee living, I will pour
From these devoted eyes their silver store,
Until exhausted of the latest drop,
So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop
Here, that I too may live: but if beyond
Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme;
If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream;
If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute,
Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit,
O let me pluck it for thee.” Thus she link’d
Her charming syllables, till indistinct
Their music came to my o’er-sweeten’d soul;
And then she hover’d over me, and stole
So near, that if no nearer it had been
This furrow’d visage thou hadst never seen. 450
“Young man of Latmos! thus particular
Am I, that thou may’st plainly see how far
This fierce temptation went: and thou may’st not
Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot?
“Who could resist? Who in this universe?
She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse
My fine existence in a golden clime.
She took me like a child of suckling time,
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn’d,
The current of my former life was stemm’d, And to this arbitrary queen of sense
I bow’d a tranced vassal: nor would thence
Have mov’d, even though Amphion’s harp had woo’d
Me back to Scylla o’er the billows rude.
For as Apollo each eve doth devise
A new appareling for western skies;
So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour
Shed balmy consciousness within that bower.
And I was free of haunts umbrageous;
Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler’d deer,
And birds from coverts innermost and drear
Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow–
To me new born delights!
“Now let me borrow,
For moments few, a temperament as stern
As Pluto’s sceptre, that my words not burn
