Than the pure freshness of thy laurels Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast

Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, The light dwelt o'er the scene so linger- And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

And turns for calmness to the pleasant Its long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer

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,

Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel,
Gladdening in the free, and airy feel
Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond 1410
Is looking round about him with a fond
And placid eye, young Calidore is burning
To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant
spurning

There stood a knight, patting the flowing Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of

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 wingèd 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

120

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondi

bert,

Said the good man to Calidore alert;

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;

While the young warrior with a step of Lovely the moon in ether, all alone: