But, Eros blest!—what marvel rare,
What more than mortal beauty there,
What coy, what wooing-sweet perfection
Entrancèd held him, bound as in a snare?
No need to urge him now to stay! . . .
Alas! he could not turn away,
But on the Naiad's nearing charms
Gazed amorous:—on locks of brown,
On melting eyes, and rubied lips,
Slim throats and dewy finger-tips.
He stooped; they caught him in their arms,
And held him fast, and drew him down.
Down, down, down, down,
Through the liquid deeps of the soundless well:
Down, down, down, down,—
How many fathom, ah! who can tell?
Away from the day and the starlit hours,
Away from the shadows, the birds, and the flowers;
Away from the fell and the spicy dell,
From the fountain's smile and the mountain's frown;
Down, down, down, down!
He tried to ascend, but the lithe arms enwound him;
He sought to escape, but the wily weeds bound him.
