Calidore: A Fragment

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;His healthful spirit eager and awakeTo feel the beauty of a silent eve,Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave;The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,And smiles at the far clearness all around,Until his heart is well nigh over wound,And turns for calmness to the pleasant greenOf easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean10So elegantly o'er the waters' brimAnd show their blossoms trim.Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight followThe freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow,Delighting much, to see it half at rest,Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,The widening circles into nothing gone.

And now the sharp keel of his little boatComes up with ripple, and with easy float,20And glides into a bed of water-lilies:Broad-leav'd are they, and their white canopiesAre upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.Near to a little island's point they grew;Whence Calidore might have the goodliest viewOf this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shoreWent off in gentle windings to the hoarAnd light blue mountains: but no breathing manWith a warm heart, and eye prepared to scanNature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by30Objects that look'd out so invitinglyOn either side. These, gentle CalidoreGreeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress;Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings,And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn,Stands venerably proud; too proud to mournIts long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around,40Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.

The little chapel, with the cross above,Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,That on the windows spreads his feathers light,And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shadesAcross the lake; sequester'd leafy glades,That through the dimness of their twilight showLarge dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glowOf the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stemsOf delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems51A little brook. The youth had long been viewingThese pleasant things, and heaven was bedewingThe mountain flowers, when his glad senses caughtA trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraughtWith many joys for him: the warder's kenHad found white coursers prancing in the glen:Friends very dear to him he soon will see;So pushes off his boat most eagerly,And soon upon the lake he skims along,60Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song;Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:His spirit flies before him so completely.

And now he turns a jutting point of land,Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,Before the point of his light shallop reachesThose marble steps that through the water dip:Now over them he goes with hasty trip,And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:70Anon he leaps along the oaken floorsOf halls and corridors.

Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed thingsThat float about the air on azure wings,Had been less heartfelt by him than the clangOf clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang,Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein;While from beneath the threat'ning portcullisThey brought their happy burthens. What a kiss,80What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand!How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd!Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,While whisperings of affectionMade him delay to let their tender feetCome to the earth; with an incline so sweetFrom their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent:And whether there were tears of languishment,Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses,He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses90With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye,All the soft luxuryThat nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand,Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowersOf whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers:And this he fondled with his happy cheek,As if for joy he would no further seek;When the kind voice of good Sir ClerimondCame to his ear, like something from beyond100His present being: so he gently drewHis warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,Thank'd Heaven that his joy was never ending;While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'dA hand Heaven made to succour the distress'd;A hand that from the world's bleak promontoryHad lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare,There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair110Of his proud horse's mane: he was withalA man of elegance, and stature tall:So that the waving of his plumes would beHigh as the berries of a wild ash-tree,Or as the wingèd cap of Mercury.His armour was so dexterously wroughtIn shape, that sure no living man had thoughtIt hard, and heavy steel: but that indeedIt was some glorious form, some splendid weed,In which a spirit new come from the skies120Might live, and show itself to human eyes.'T is the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert,Said the good man to Calidore alert;While the young warrior with a step of graceCame up,—a courtly smile upon his face,And mailèd hand held out, ready to greetThe large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heatOf the aspiring boy; who as he ledThose smiling ladies, often turned his headTo admire the visor arched so gracefully130Over a knightly brow; while they went byThe lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were pendent,And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greetedAll the green leaves that round the window clamber,To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel,Gladdening in the free, and airy feelOf a light mantle; and while Clerimond140Is looking round about him with a fondAnd placid eye, young Calidore is burningTo hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurningOf all unworthiness; and how the strong of armKept off dismay, and terror, and alarmFrom lovely woman: while brimful of this,He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss,And had such manly ardour in his eye,That each at other look'd half-staringly;And then their features started into smiles,150Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came,Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower;Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone;Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,As that of busy spirits when the portalsAre closing in the west; or that soft humming160We hear around when Hesperus is coming.Sweet be their sleep. . . .