Endymion E-Book

John Keats

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 133

Beschreibung

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good;it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.

Leseprobe

Published by BoD - Books on Demand, NorderstedtISBN: 9783748147220

Table of contents

PREFACE.

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

BOOK III.

BOOK IV.

PREFACE.

Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good;–it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honour of English literature.The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages.I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewel.

BOOK I.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathingA flowery band to bind us to the earth,Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearthOf noble natures, of the gloomy days,Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways10Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boonFor simple sheep; and such are daffodilsWith the green world they live in; and clear rillsThat for themselves a cooling covert make'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:And such too is the grandeur of the dooms20We have imagined for the mighty dead;All lovely tales that we have heard or read:An endless fountain of immortal drink,Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.Nor do we merely feel these essencesFor one short hour; no, even as the treesThat whisper round a temple become soonDear as the temple's self, so does the moon,The passion poesy, glories infinite,Haunt us till they become a cheering light30Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,They alway must be with us, or we die.Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that IWill trace the story of Endymion.The very music of the name has goneInto my being, and each pleasant sceneIs growing fresh before me as the greenOf our own vallies: so I will beginNow while I cannot hear the city's din;40Now while the early budders are just new,And run in mazes of the youngest hueAbout old forests; while the willow trailsIts delicate amber; and the dairy pailsBring home increase of milk. And, as the yearGrows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steerMy little boat, for many quiet hours,With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.Many and many a verse I hope to write,Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,50Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the beesHum about globes of clover and sweet peas,I must be near the middle of my story.O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,With universal tinge of sober gold,Be all about me when I make an end.And now at once, adventuresome, I sendMy herald thought into a wilderness:There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress60My uncertain path with green, that I may speedEasily onward, thorough flowers and weed.Upon the sides of Latmos was outspreadA mighty forest; for the moist earth fedSo plenteously all weed-hidden rootsInto o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keepA lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,Never again saw he the happy pens70Whither his brethren, bleating with content,Over the hills at every nightfall went.Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,That not one fleecy lamb which thus did severFrom the white flock, but pass'd unworriedBy angry wolf, or pard with prying head,Until it came to some unfooted plainsWhere fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gainsWho thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,80And ivy banks; all leading pleasantlyTo a wide lawn, whence one could only seeStems thronging all around between the swellOf turf and slanting branches: who could tellThe freshness of the space of heaven above,Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a doveWould often beat its wings, and often tooA little cloud would move across the blue.Full in the middle of this pleasantnessThere stood a marble altar, with a tress90Of flowers budded newly; and the dewHad taken fairy phantasies to strewDaisies upon the sacred sward last eve,And so the dawned light in pomp receive.For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fireMade every eastern cloud a silvery pyreOf brightness so unsullied, that thereinA melancholy spirit well might winOblivion, and melt out his essence fineInto the winds: rain-scented eglantine100Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;The lark was lost in him; cold springs had runTo warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;Man's voice was on the mountains; and the massOf nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.Now while the silent workings of the dawnWere busiest, into that self-same lawnAll suddenly, with joyful cries, there spedA troop of little children garlanded;110Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pryEarnestly round as wishing to espySome folk of holiday: nor had they waitedFor many moments, ere their ears were satedWith a faint breath of music, which ev'n thenFill'd out its voice, and died away again.Within a little space again it gaveIts airy swellings, with a gentle wave,To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breakingThrough copse-clad vallies,–ere their death, o'ertakingThe surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.121And now, as deep into the wood as weMight mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered lightFair faces and a rush of garments white,Plainer and plainer shewing, till at lastInto the widest alley they all past,Making directly for the woodland altar.O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulterIn telling of this goodly company,Of their old piety, and of their glee:130But let a portion of ethereal dewFall on my head, and presently unmewMy soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.Leading the way, young damsels danced along,Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;Each having a white wicker over brimm'dWith April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looksAs may be read of in Arcadian books;140Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,When the great deity, for earth too ripe,Let his divinity o'er-flowing dieIn music, through the vales of Thessaly:Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,And some kept up a shrilly mellow soundWith ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,Now coming from beneath the forest trees,A venerable priest full soberly,Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye150Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,And after him his sacred vestments swept.From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;And in his left he held a basket fullOf all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter stillThan Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth160Of winter hoar. Then came another crowdOf shepherds, lifting in due time aloudTheir share of the ditty. After them appear'd,Up-followed by a multitude that rear'dTheir voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,Easily rolling so as scarce to marThe freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:Who stood therein did seem of great renownAmong the throng. His youth was fully blown,Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;170And, for those simple times, his garments wereA chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,Was hung a silver bugle, and betweenHis 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'dOf idleness in groves Elysian:But there were some who feelingly could scanA lurking trouble in his nether lip,And see that oftentimes the reins would slip180Through 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 rang'd,Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'dTo sudden veneration: women meekBeckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheekOf virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.Endymion too, without a forest peer,190Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,Among his brothers of the mountain chase.In midst of all, the venerable priestEyed them with joy from greatest to the least,And, after lifting up his aged hands,Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:Whether descended from beneath the rocksThat overtop your mountains; whether comeFrom vallies where the pipe is never dumb;200Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirsBlue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furzeBuds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chargeNibble their fill at ocean's very marge,Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlornBy the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:Mothers and wives! who day by day prepareThe scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;And all ye gentle girls who foster upUdderless lambs, and in a little cup210Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:Yea, every one attend! for in good truthOur vows are wanting to our great god Pan.Are not our lowing heifers sleeker thanNight-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plainsSpeckled with countless fleeces? Have not rainsGreen'd over April's lap? No howling sadSickens our fearful ewes; and we have hadGreat bounty from Endymion our lord.The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd220His early song against yon breezy sky,That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spireOf teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sodWith wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.Now while the earth was drinking it, and whileBay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light230Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:"O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hangFrom jagged trunks, and overshadowethEternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, deathOf unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dressTheir ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearkenThe dreary melody of bedded reeds–In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds240The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;Bethinking thee, how melancholy lothThou 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, turtlesPassion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,What time thou wanderest at eventideThrough sunny meadows, that outskirt the side250Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whomBroad leaved fig trees even now foredoomTheir ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted beesTheir golden honeycombs; our village leasTheir fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn;The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,To sing for thee; low creeping strawberriesTheir summer coolness; pent up butterfliesTheir freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding yearAll its completions–be quickly near,260By every wind that nods the mountain pine,O forester divine!"Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr fliesFor willing service; whether to surpriseThe squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;Or upward ragged precipices flitTo save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;Or by mysterious enticement drawBewildered shepherds to their path again;Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,270And gather up all fancifullest shellsFor 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 crownWith 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 peers280A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,When snouted wild-boars routing tender cornAnger 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 doorsLeading to universal knowledge–see,Great son of Dryope,290The many that are come to pay their vowsWith leaves about their brows!Be still the unimaginable lodgeFor solitary thinkings; such as dodgeConception to the very bourne of heaven,Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,That spreading in this dull and clodded earthGives it a touch ethereal–a new birth:Be still a symbol of immensity;A firmament reflected in a sea;300An element filling the space between;An unknown–but no more: we humbly screenWith 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 lingered in the air like dying rollsOf abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals310Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,Young companies nimbly began dancingTo the swift treble pipe, and humming string.Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenlyTo tunes forgotten–out of memory:Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bredThermopylæ its heroes–not yet dead,But in old marbles ever beautiful.High genitors, unconscious did they cull320Time's sweet first-fruits–they danc'd to weariness,And then in quiet circles did they pressThe hillock turf, and caught the latter endOf some strange history, potent to sendA young mind from its bodily tenement.Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intentOn either side; pitying the sad deathOf Hyacinthus, when the cruel breathOf Zephyr slew him,–Zephyr penitent,Who now, ere Phœbus mounts the firmament,330Fondles 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 raftBranch down sweeping from a tall ash top,Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelopeThose who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling kneeAnd frantic gape of lonely Niobe,Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely youngWere dead and gone, and her caressing tongue340Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,And very, very deadliness did nipHer motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad moodBy 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 amazeTossing about on Neptune's restless ways,Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,There shot a golden splendour far and wide,350Spangling those million poutings of the brineWith quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shineFrom the exaltation of Apollo's bow;A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,Might turn their steps towards the sober ringWhere sat Endymion and the aged priest'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'dThe silvery setting of their mortal star.There they discours'd upon the fragile bar360That keeps us from our homes ethereal;And what our duties there: to nightly callVesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;To summon all the downiest clouds togetherFor the sun's purple couch; to emulateIn ministring the potent rule of fateWith speed of fire-tailed exhalations;To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who consSweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,A world of other unguess'd offices.370Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,Into Elysium; vieing to rehearseEach one his own anticipated bliss.One felt heart-certain that he could not missHis quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endowsHer lips with music for the welcoming.Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:380Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;And, ever after, through those regions beHis messenger, his little Mercury,