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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 eyesight 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 undersong;

       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,

      

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