'Circe
and Scylla'
John
Melhuish Strudwick
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"Young lover, I must
weep--such hellish spite
With dry cheek who can
tell? While thus my might
Proving upon this element,
dismay'd,
Upon a dead thing's
face my hand I laid;
I look'd--'twas
Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe!
O vulture-witch,
hast never heard of mercy?
Could not thy harshest
vengeance be content,
But thou must nip this
tender innocent
Because I lov'd her?--Cold,
O cold indeed
Were her fair limbs,
and like a common weed
The sea-swell
took her hair. Dead as she was
I clung about her waist,
nor ceas'd to pass
Fleet as an arrow through
unfathom'd brine,
Until there shone a
fabric crystalline,
Ribb'd and inlaid with
coral, pebble, and pearl.
Headlong I darted; at
one eager swirl
Gain'd its bright portal,
enter'd, and behold!
'Twas vast, and desolate,
and icy-cold;
And all around--But
wherefore this to thee
Who in few minutes more
thyself shalt see?--
I left poor Scylla in
a niche and fled.
My fever'd parchings
up, my scathing dread
Met palsy half way:
soon these limbs became
Gaunt, wither'd, sapless,
feeble, cramp'd, and lame.
from 'Endymion'
John Keats
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