Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 110 Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, My charming rod, my potent river spells; Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me,--for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 120 But woe is me, I am but as a child To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, Is, that I pity thee; that on this day I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far In other regions, past the scanty bar To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en From every wasting sigh, from every pain, Into the gentle bosom of thy love. Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel! 130 I have a ditty for my hollow cell." Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; 140 And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps, Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encamps To take a fancied city of delight, O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his, After long toil and travelling, to miss The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile: Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil; Another city doth he set about, Free from the smallest pebble-head of doubt 150 That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to shew How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, 160 Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land-- Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to't; I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, Than be--I care not what. O meekest dove 170 Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!