Poems 1817 | Page 4

follow with due reverence,?And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.?Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope?To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:?The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers:?Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.
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