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As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

And crept through half-closed lattices to cure

The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,

And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.

Soon they awoke clear-eyed: norburn'd with thirsting,

Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:

And springing up, they met the wondering sight

Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;

Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare,

And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

Young men and maidens at each other gazed,

With hands held back, and motionless, amazed

To see the brightness in each other's eyes;

And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise,

Until their tongues were loosed in poesy.

Therefore no lover did of anguish die:

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,

Made silken ties, that never may be broken.

Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses

That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses:

Was there a poet born?—But now no more—

My wandering spirit must no farther soar.


Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.

Not like the formal crest of latter days:

But bending in a thousand graceful ways;

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,

Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood,

Some mountain breeze had turn'd its chief delight

To show this wonder of its gentle might.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

From the worn top of some old battlement

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent;

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes when the good knight his rest could take,

It is reflected, clearly, in B lake,

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,

And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests.

Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye,

And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

Leaps to the honours of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring

Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

No, no ! this is far off:—then how shall I

Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

Which linger yet about long gothie arches,

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

How sing the splendour of the revelries,

When butts of wine are drank off to the lees?

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field,

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:

Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight

Rein in the swelling of his ample might >.

Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,

And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;

And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

When I think on thy noble countenance:

Where never yet was aught more earthly seen

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

My daring steps: or if thy tender care,

Thus startled unaware,

Be jealous that the foot of other wight

Should madly follow that bright path of light

Traced by thy loved Libertas ; he will speak,

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

That I will 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 lawns slope;

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers;

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. CALIDORE.


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 Ungeringly.

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,

And smiles at the far clearness all around,

Until his heart is well nigh overwound,

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-lilies:
Broad-leaved 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 CaJidore
Greeted, as he had known them long before.

The sidelong view of swelling leanness,
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress,
Whence, ever and anon, the joy 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 •

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