These raven horses, though they foster'd are 400 Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop; Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,-- And on those pinions, level in mid air, Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks 410 To divine powers: from his hand full fain Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain: He tries the nerve of Phœbus' golden bow, And asketh where the golden apples grow: Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, And strives in vain to unsettle and wield A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings And tantalizes long; at last he drinks, And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, 420 Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand. He blows a bugle,--an ethereal band Are visible above: the Seasons four,-- Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar, Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, In swells unmitigated, still doth last To sway their floating morris. "Whose is this? Whose bugle?" he inquires: they smile--"O Dis! Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know 430 Its mistress' lips? Not thou?--'Tis Dian's: lo! She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she, His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea, And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring Towards her, and awakes--and, strange, o'erhead, Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, Beheld awake his very dream: the gods Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; And Phœbe bends towards him crescented. 440 O state perplexing! On the pinion bed, Too well awake, he feels the panting side Of his delicious lady. He who died For soaring too audacious in the sun, Where that same treacherous wax began to run, Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne, To that fair shadow'd passion puls'd its way-- Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day! So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, 450 He could not help but kiss her: then he grew Awhile forgetful of all beauty save Young Phœbe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan crave Forgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to look At the sweet sleeper,--all his soul was shook,-- She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore. At this the shadow wept, melting away. The Latmian started up: "Bright goddess, stay! Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue, I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung 461