Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/184

148 From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green,

She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:

And by my power is her beauty veil'd

To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd

By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,

Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs.

Pale grew her immortality, for woe

Of all these lovers, and she grieved so

I took compassion on her, bade her steep

Her hair in weïrd syrops, that would keep

Her loveliness invisible, yet free

To wander as she loves, in liberty.

Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,

If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!'

Then, once again, the charmed God began

An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran

Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.

Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head,

Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said,

'I was a woman, let me have once more

A woman's shape, and charming as before.

I love a youth of Corinth—O the bliss!

Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is.

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.'

The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,

She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen

Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.

It was no dream; or say a dream it was,

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass

Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem

Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd;

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd

To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm,

Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm.

So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent

Full of adoring tears and blandishment,

And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,

Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower

That faints into itself at evening hour:

But the God fostering her chilled hand,

She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland,

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,

Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees.

Into the green-recessed woods they flew;

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.

Left to herself, the serpent now began

To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,

Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent,

Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent;

Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear,

Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,

Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.

The colours all inflamed throughout her train,

She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain:

A deep volcanian yellow took the place

Of all her milder-mooned body's grace;

And, as the lava ravishes the mead,

Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede:

Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,

Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars:

So that, in moments few, she was undrest

Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,

And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,