Now wing'd Apollo, fing'ring golden strings, Hath wandered far in his dear ponderings, And fashioned such a music, wild and free, As wakes to love the cold anemone, And saddened Hyacinth forgets to moan, Beside a sweetness sadder than his own--A sweeter strain than Orpheus honeyed breath, Had sung to charm the stygian tides of death. And Iris on a heavenly message sent, Hath paused to hear this new forlorn lament. This tender goddess of all daintiness, Stands tiptoe holding up her showery dress, 'Tween dainty fingers, till the spangled folds Of mingled hues, in wondrous bow she holds, And leans to learn what wondrous thing of beauty, Must prompt so sweet a lay. Forgotten duty, That bade her speed to regions somnolent, For balmy dreams, to nurse a languishment, That pales the boyish cheek of dimpled Cupid, She speeds where all of beauty's minions groupéd, Do feast their eyes upon the source of song. And after her still comes a charmed throng, From music's toils the slaves of loveliness. Ah! when this radiant scene her eye doth bless What sighs are born of deep enraptured joy! And Iris now recalls the languid boy; For this is Psyche! This the dainty nymph, Whose love hath paled his cheek to dewy lymph! And all aflame to do a happy thing, She bounds away upon her swiftest wing, To Somnus' gloomy cavern. Scarce a thought, Might mark the time in which her pinions brought, Her to the drowsy rug of poppies spread, Where drowsy Somnus nods his hoary head. His myriad minions, like the forest leaves, When some wild gust their autumn rest upheaves, Rush to her overwhelming. Lethe fumes, Of sweet seduction, oozing from the glooms, That shield the murky river, drag to aching Her wearied eyes, and e'en her sense forsaking, She fain would rest upon the poppied rug, Like some pale Orient deep within a drug. But _beauty_ is the dream of godly sleep, And scare her eyes have fluttered, when a peep Of golden fragments tantalize their sense To waking; thus to try, with soul intense, To reconstruct some evanescent gleam Of something they remember. Ah! what dream So fair as Psyche sleeping in a fairy ring? So fair as languid love's sad wandering To grief or joy along a feverish beam? She wakes the drowsy god, demands a dream: And quits the sunless cave with winged Morpheus. And now again the amorous sire of Orpheus, They meet, and now the sad immortal strain, Shall lure them on to Psyche's dell again. What though the Thracian queen may bide but ill, Miscarrying chance with her imperial will?-- Sweet Iris hath a gentler thought. She brings, The dream to see those luminous sleeping wings, All pied and crested like a tiger moth, When from a soothing beam his heart is loth, To part, and basks for very idleness; Those tiny feet where they so lightly press As not to weight a daisy to the earth; Turned dimple breasts, such beauty of one birth As Nature yields no more; one small hand prest Against them coldly white, and one carest By raptured blooms, outstretched upon the grasses; And oh! her head! what glory there surpasses, Of golden ringlets curling and uncurling As gentle Zephyr with a silent purling, Plays free among them,--scarcely parted lips, So flower like, a wild bee drops and sips, So sweet he flies away full honey laden, Unconscious of his lightness. Such a maiden That Morpheus eld historian of th' ideal Must write another canto. Softly steal, The fine emotions o'er his countenance, As though a prism's unveiléd hues should dance, Upon a shy chamelion. Seeing this, The happy Iris mounts upon his bliss, With soothing words; "Thou seest the butterfly, "Whose flooding beam hath drown'd dear Cupid's eye. "The queen demands thou bring him fairest pleasure, "Of all the joys thou holdest in thy measure. "Sweet Psyche's story, whispered by the wind, "In every dewy flower cup thou'lt find, "As deeply mirrored as the starry skies. "Fly to the fretting boy with dear surprise "Of all thy cunning. Kiss his fevered lips, "As Psyche then, when doubting falls and slips, "Still left unmarred their blissful stream of life. "Sweet whisper tales of life and love arife, "To guide his swooning fancy from its pain, "To revel in the life of love again." The Dream hath kindled to a gorgeous hue, Out speaking words, and in a drop of dew Hath read sweet Psyche's tearful story. And Lo! the boy beholds a growing glory Of something rich and old; and feels the sense Of olden kisses planted quick, intense, And warm caresses softly lingering To lose no dear sensation. Blushes bring, In quick succession, while his chin atilt, 'Tween tender fingers, meets a raptured lilt, Of love for love, as lovers only know. And he hath seen the bitter path of woe, Each ragged rock her feet have limp'd upon; Each hopeless deep, and heard each bitter moan.