enough
     To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
     Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
     Over these hills and vales, where no joy is,—
     Empty of immortality and bliss!
     Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
     That finer spirits cannot breathe below
     In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,
     What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
     My essence? What serener palaces,
     Where I may all my many senses please,
     And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
     It cannot be—Adieu!" So said, she rose
     Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose
     The amorous promise of her lone complain,
     Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
     The cruel lady, without any show
     Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe,
     But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
     With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
     Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
     The life she had so tangled in her mesh:
     And as he from one trance was wakening
     Into another, she began to sing,
     Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,
     A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
     While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires
     And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone,
     As those who, safe together met alone
     For the first time through many anguish'd days,
     Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise
     His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
     For that she was a woman, and without
     Any more subtle fluid in her veins
     Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
     Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.
     And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss
     Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
     She dwelt but half retir'd, and there had led
     Days happy as the gold coin could invent
     Without the aid of love; yet in content
     Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,
     Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
     At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd
     Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd
     Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before
     The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
     But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
     Lycius from death awoke into amaze,
     To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
     Then from amaze into delight he fell
     To hear her whisper woman's lore so well;
     And every word she spake entic'd him on
     To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known.
     Let the mad poets say whate'er they please
     Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
     There is not such a treat among them all,
     Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
     As a real woman, lineal indeed
     From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.
     Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright,
     That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
     So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
     More pleasantly by playing woman's part,
     With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
     That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
     Lycius to all made eloquent reply,
     Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;
     And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet,
     If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet.
     The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness
     Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
     To a few paces; not at all surmised
     By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.
     They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how
     So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

        As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
     Throughout her palaces imperial,
     And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
     Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd,
     To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
     Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
     Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white,
     Companion'd or alone; while many a light
     Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
     And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
     Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade
     Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade.

        Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
     Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near
     With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,
     Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown:
     Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,
     Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
     While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he,
     "Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?
     Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?"—
     "I'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me who
     Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind
     His features—Lycius! wherefore did you blind
     Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied,
     'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
     And good instructor; but to-night he seems
     The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.

        While yet he spake they had arrived before
     A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door,
     Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
     Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
     Mild as a star in water; for so new,
     And so unsullied was the marble hue,
     So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
     Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
     Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds Aeolian
     Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span
     Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown
     Some time to any, but those two alone,
     And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
     Were seen about the markets: none knew where
     They could inhabit; the most curious
     Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house:
     And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
     For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel,
     'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
     Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.

Part 2