Calidore: A Fragment
Young
Calidore
is
paddling
o'er
the
lake;
His
healthful
spirit
eager
and
awake
To
feel
the
beauty
of
a
silent
eve,
Which
seem'd
full
loath
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
green
Of
easy
slopes,
and
shadowy
trees
that
lean
So
elegantly
o'er
the
waters'
brim
And
show
their
blossoms
trim.
Scarce
can
his
clear
and
nimble
eye-sight
follow
The
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
boat
Comes
up
with
ripple,
and
with
easy
float,
And
glides
into
a
bed
of
water
lillies:
Broad
leav'd
are
they
and
their
white
canopies
Are
upward
turn'd
to
catch
the
heavens'
dew.
Near
to
a
little
island's
point
they
grew;
Whence
Calidore
might
have
the
goodliest
view
Of
this
sweet
spot
of
earth.
The
bowery
shore
Went
off
in
gentle
windings
to
the
hoar
And
light
blue
mountains:
but
no
breathing
man
With
a
warm
heart,
and
eye
prepared
to
scan
Nature's
clear
beauty,
could
pass
lightly
by
Objects
that
look'd
out
so
invitingly
On
either
side.
These,
gentle
Calidore
Greeted,
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
mourn
Its
long
lost
grandeur:
fir
trees
grow
around,
Aye
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
shades
Across
the
lake;
sequester’d
leafy
glades,
That
through
the
dimness
of
their
twilight
show
Large
dock
leaves,
spiral
foxgloves,
or
the
glow
Of
the
wild
cat’s
eyes,
or
the
silvery
stems
Of
delicate
birch
trees,
or
long
grass
which
hems
A
little
brook.
The
youth
had
long
been
viewing
These
pleasant
things,
and
heaven
was
bedewing
The
mountain
flowers,
when
his
glad
senses
caught
A
trumpet's
silver
voice.
Ah!
it
was
fraught
With
many
joys
for
him:
the
warder's
ken
Had
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,
Deaf
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
reaches
Those
marble
steps
that
through
the
water
dip:
Now
over
them
he
goes
with
hasty
trip,
And
scarcely
stays
to
ope
the
folding
doors:
Anon
he
leaps
along
the
oaken
floors
Of
halls
and
corridors.
Delicious
sounds!
those
little
bright-eyed
things
That
float
about
the
air
on
azure
wings,
Had
been
less
heartfelt
by
him
than
the
clang
Of
clattering
hoofs;
into
the
court
he
sprang,
Just
as
two
noble
steeds,
and
palfreys
twain,
Were
slanting
out
their
necks
with
loosened
rein;
While
from
beneath
the
threat'ning
portcullis
They
brought
their
happy
burthens.
What
a
kiss,
What
gentle
squeeze
he
gave
each
lady's
hand!
How
tremblingly
their
delicate
ancles
spann’d!
Into
how
sweet
a
trance
his
soul
was
gone,
While
whisperings
of
affection
Made
him
delay
to
let
their
tender
feet
Come
to
the
earth;
with
an
incline
so
sweet
From
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
blesses
With
lips
that
tremble,
and
with
glistening
eye
All
the
soft
luxury
That
nestled
in
his
arms.
A
dimpled
hand,
Fair
as
some
wonder
out
of
fairy
land,
Hung
from
his
shoulder
like
the
drooping
flowers
Of
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
Clerimond
Came
to
his
ear,
like
something
from
beyond
His
present
being:
so
he
gently
drew
His
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'd
A
hand
heaven
made
to
succour
the
distress'd;
A
hand
that
from
the
world's
bleak
promontory
Had
lifted
Calidore
for
deeds
of
glory.
Amid
the
pages,
and
the
torches'
glare,
There
stood
a
knight,
patting
the
flowing
hair
Of
his
proud
horse's
mane:
he
was
withal
A
man
of
elegance,
and
stature
tall:
So
that
the
waving
of
his
plumes
would
be
High
as
the
berries
of
a
wild
ash
tree,
Or
as
the
winged
cap
of
Mercury.
His
armour
was
so
dexterously
wrought
In
shape,
that
sure
no
living
man
had
thought
It
hard,
and
heavy
steel:
but
that
indeed
It
was
some
glorious
form,
some
splendid
weed,
In
which
a
spirit
new
come
from
the
skies
Might
live,
and
show
itself
to
human
eyes.
'Tis
the
far-fam'd,
the
brave
Sir
Gondibert,
Said
the
good
man
to
Calidore
alert;
While
the
young
warrior
with
a
step
of
grace
Came
up,--a
courtly
smile
upon
his
face,
And
mailed
hand
held
out,
ready
to
greet
The
large-eyed
wonder,
and
ambitious
heat
Of
the
aspiring
boy;
who
as
he
led
Those
smiling
ladies,
often
turned
his
head
To
admire
the
visor
arched
so
gracefully
Over
a
knightly
brow;
while
they
went
by
The
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
greeted
All
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
feel
Of
a
light
mantle;
and
while
Clerimond
Is
looking
round
about
him
with
a
fond,
And
placid
eye,
young
Calidore
is
burning
To
hear
of
knightly
deeds,
and
gallant
spurning
Of
all
unworthiness;
and
how
the
strong
of
arm
Kept
off
dismay,
and
terror,
and
alarm
From
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
Sweet
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
portals
Are
closing
in
the
west;
or
that
soft
humming
We
hear
around
when
Hesperus
is
coming.
Sweet
be
their
sleep.
