315 Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan’s feet that sit—­ Or as on Vesta’s sceptre a swift flame—­ Or on blind Homer’s heart a winged thought,—­ In joyous expectation lay the boat. 320

35.  Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love—­all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow—­ 325 A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.

36.  A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect 330 Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,—­ In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, 335 Imaging forth such perfect purity.

37.  From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere:  340 She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said:  ‘Sit here!’ And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet.

38.  And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, 345 Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid 350 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably.

39.  The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; 355 A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night’s mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. 360

40.  And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o’er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, 365 And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain.

41.  And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went:  370 Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o’er