Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/136

124

Who strive therefore; on the sudden it is won. Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him; and from an urn, Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught— Young Semele such richness never quaff'd In her maternal longing. Happy gloom! Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom Of health by dew; where silence dreariest Is most articulate; where hopes infest; Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul! Pregnant with such a den to save the whole In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! For, never since thy griefs and woes began, Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. Ay, his lu'll'd soul was there, although upborne With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn Because he knew not whither he was going. So happy was he, not the aerial blowing Of trumpets at clear parley from the east Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. They stung the feather'd horse; with fierce alarm He flapped towards the sound. Alas! no charm Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude,— And silvery was its passing: voices sweet Warbling the while as if to lull and greet The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they While past the vision went in bright array.