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Upon a time, before the faery broods
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Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
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Before King Oberon's bright diadem,
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Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,
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Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
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From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns,
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The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
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His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:
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From high Olympus had he stolen light,
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On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight
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Of his great summoner, and made retreat
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Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
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For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
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A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;
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At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured
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Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored.
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Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
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And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,
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Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,
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Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose.
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Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!
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So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
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Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
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That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
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Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair,
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Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
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From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
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Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,
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And wound with many a river to its head,
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To find where this sweet nymph prepar'd her secret bed:
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In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,
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And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
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Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
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Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
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There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,
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Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys
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All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:
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"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake!
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When move in a sweet body fit for life,
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And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife
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Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!"
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The God, dove-footed, glided silently
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Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,
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The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
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Until he found a palpitating snake,
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Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.
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She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
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Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
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Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
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Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd;
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And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
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Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
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Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries,
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She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,
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Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
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Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:
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Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
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She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete:
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And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
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But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
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As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.
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Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
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Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake,
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And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
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Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey.
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"Fair Hermes, crown'd with feathers, fluttering light,
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I had a splendid dream of thee last night:
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I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,
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Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
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The only sad one; for thou didst not hear
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The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chaunting clear,
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Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
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Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moan.
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I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,
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Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,
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And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,
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Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art!
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Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?"
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Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd
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His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:
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"Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired!
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Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,
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Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,
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Telling me only where my nymph is fled,—
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Where she doth breathe!" "Bright planet, thou hast said,"
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Return'd the snake, "but seal with oaths, fair God!"
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"I swear," said Hermes, "by my serpent rod,
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And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!"
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Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.
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Then thus again the brilliance feminine:
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"Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,
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Free as the air, invisibly, she strays
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About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days
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She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet
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Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;
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From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green,
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She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:
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And by my power is her beauty veil'd
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To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd
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By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,
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Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs.
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Pale grew her immortality, for woe
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Of all these lovers, and she grieved so
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I took compassion on her, bade her steep
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Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep
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Her loveliness invisible, yet free
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To wander as she loves, in liberty.
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Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,
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If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!"
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Then, once again, the charmed God began
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An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran
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Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.
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Ravish'd, she lifted her Circean head,
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Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said,
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"I was a woman, let me have once more
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A woman's shape, and charming as before.
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I love a youth of Corinth—O the bliss!
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Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is.
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Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,
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And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now."
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The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,
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She breath'd upon his eyes, and swift was seen
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Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.
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It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
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Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem
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Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd;
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Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd
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To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm,
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Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.
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So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,
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Full of adoring tears and blandishment,
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And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,
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Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain
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Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower
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That faints into itself at evening hour:
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But the God fostering her chilled hand,
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She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland,
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And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,
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Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees.
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Into the green-recessed woods they flew;
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Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
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Left to herself, the serpent now began
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To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,
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Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent,
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Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent;
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Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear,
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Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
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Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.
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The colours all inflam'd throughout her train,
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She writh'd about, convuls'd with scarlet pain:
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A deep volcanian yellow took the place
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Of all her milder-mooned body's grace;
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And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
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Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;
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Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
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Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars:
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So that, in moments few, she was undrest
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Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
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And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,
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Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.
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Still shone her crown; that vanish'd, also she
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Melted and disappear'd as suddenly;
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And in the air, her new voice luting soft,
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Cried, "Lycius! gentle Lycius!"—Borne aloft
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With the bright mists about the mountains hoar
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These words dissolv'd: Crete's forests heard no more.
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Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,
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A full-born beauty new and exquisite?
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She fled into that valley they pass o'er
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Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore;
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And rested at the foot of those wild hills,
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The rugged founts of the Peraean rills,
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And of that other ridge whose barren back
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Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,
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South-westward to Cleone. There she stood
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About a young bird's flutter from a wood,
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Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
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By a clear pool, wherein she passioned
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To see herself escap'd from so sore ills,
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While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.
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Ah, happy Lycius!—for she was a maid
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More beautiful than ever twisted braid,
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Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea
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Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:
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A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore
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Of love deep learned to the red heart's core:
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Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain
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To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain;
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Define their pettish limits, and estrange
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Their points of contact, and swift counterchange;
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Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart
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Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;
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As though in Cupid's college she had spent
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Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
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And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
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Why this fair creature chose so fairily
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By the wayside to linger, we shall see;
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But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse
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And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,
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Of all she list, strange or magnificent:
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How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went;
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Whether to faint Elysium, or where
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Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair
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Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair;
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Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,
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Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;
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Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine
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Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line.
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And sometimes into cities she would send
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Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;
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And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,
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She saw the young Corinthian Lycius
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Charioting foremost in the envious race,
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Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
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And fell into a swooning love of him.
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Now on the moth-time of that evening dim
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He would return that way, as well she knew,
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To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew
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The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
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Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow
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In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle
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Fresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhile
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To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there
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Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.
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Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire;
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For by some freakful chance he made retire
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From his companions, and set forth to walk,
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Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:
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Over the solitary hills he fared,
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Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appeared
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His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,
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In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades.
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Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near—
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Close to her passing, in indifference drear,
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His silent sandals swept the mossy green;
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So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen
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She stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries,
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His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes
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Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white
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Turn'd—syllabling thus, "Ah, Lycius bright,
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And will you leave me on the hills alone?
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Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown."
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He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,
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But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice;
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For so delicious were the words she sung,
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It seem'd he had lov'd them a whole summer long:
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And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,
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Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,
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And still the cup was full,—while he afraid
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Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid
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Due adoration, thus began to adore;
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Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:
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"Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see
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Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!
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For pity do not this sad heart belie—
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Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.
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Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!
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To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:
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Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,
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Alone they can drink up the morning rain:
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Though a descended Pleiad, will not one
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Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune
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Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?
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So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine
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Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade
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Thy memory will waste me to a shade—
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For pity do not melt!"—"If I should stay,"
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Said Lamia, "here, upon this floor of clay,
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And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,
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What canst thou say or do of charm enough
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To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
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Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
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Over these hills and vales, where no joy is,—
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Empty of immortality and bliss!
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Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
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That finer spirits cannot breathe below
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In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,
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What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
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My essence? What serener palaces,
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Where I may all my many senses please,
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And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
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It cannot be—Adieu!" So said, she rose
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Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose
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The amorous promise of her lone complain,
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Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
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The cruel lady, without any show
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Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe,
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But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
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With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
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Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
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The life she had so tangled in her mesh:
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And as he from one trance was wakening
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Into another, she began to sing,
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Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,
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A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
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While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires
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And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone,
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As those who, safe together met alone
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For the first time through many anguish'd days,
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Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise
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His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
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For that she was a woman, and without
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Any more subtle fluid in her veins
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Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
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Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.
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And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss
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Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
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She dwelt but half retir'd, and there had led
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Days happy as the gold coin could invent
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Without the aid of love; yet in content
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Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,
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Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
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At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd
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Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd
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Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before
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The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
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But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
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Lycius from death awoke into amaze,
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To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
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Then from amaze into delight he fell
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To hear her whisper woman's lore so well;
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And every word she spake entic'd him on
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To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known.
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Let the mad poets say whate'er they please
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Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
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There is not such a treat among them all,
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Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
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As a real woman, lineal indeed
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From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.
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Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright,
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That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
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So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
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More pleasantly by playing woman's part,
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With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
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That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
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Lycius to all made eloquent reply,
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Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;
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And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet,
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If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet.
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The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness
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Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
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To a few paces; not at all surmised
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By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.
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They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how
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So noiseless, and he never thought to know.
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As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
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Throughout her palaces imperial,
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And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
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Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd,
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To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
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Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
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Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white,
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Companion'd or alone; while many a light
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Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
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And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
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Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade
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Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade.
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Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
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Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near
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With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,
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Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown:
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Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,
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Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
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While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he,
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"Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?
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Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?"—
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"I'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me who
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Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind
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His features—Lycius! wherefore did you blind
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Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied,
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'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
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And good instructor; but to-night he seems
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The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.
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While yet he spake they had arrived before
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A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door,
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Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
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Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
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Mild as a star in water; for so new,
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And so unsullied was the marble hue,
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So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
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Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
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Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds Aeolian
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Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span
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Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown
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Some time to any, but those two alone,
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And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
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Were seen about the markets: none knew where
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They could inhabit; the most curious
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Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house:
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And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
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For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel,
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'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
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Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.
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