XXVII. "Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in, Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath; And with that thought forestalling her own fears, XXVIII. By this, the climbing sun, with rest repair'd, Look'd through the gold embrasures of the sky, And ask'd the drowsy world how she had far'd; The drowsy world shone brighten'd in reply; And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam Spied young Leander in the middle stream. XXIX. His face was pallid, but the hectic morn Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, XXX. He thought of Hero and the lost delight, XXXI. Her aspect's like a moon divinely fair, But makes the midnight darker that it lies on; XXXII. She's all too bright, too argent, and too pale, Reflected on the wave so faint and frail, She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble; Or dim creation of a morning dream, Fair as the wave-bleach'd lily of the stream. XXXIII. The very rumour strikes his seeing dead: Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense : He knows not if her lips be blue or red, XXXIV. Anon resuming, it declares her eyes Are tinct with azure, like two crystal wells XXXV. Her lips might corals seem, but corals near, And o'er the weaker red still domineer, And make it pale by tribute to more power; XXXVI. Thus he beholds her rocking on the water, Under the glossy umbrage of her hair, Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, A nightingale within a falcon's nest. XXXVII. They say there be such maidens in the deep, As drowsy men are poison'd through the ear; This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge. XXXVIII. At which he falls into a deadly chill, And strains his eyes upon her lips apart; Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill, Pierce through his marrow, like a breath-blown dart Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane, With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain. G XXXIX. Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd His mind stretch'd universal, to embrace XL. For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, Time's tragic consequents ere time began, A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span. XLI. A moment's thinking, is an hour in words, An hour of words is little for some woes; Too little breathing a long life affords, For love to paint itself by perfect shows; Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come. |