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BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flow'rets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the Lark is heard,
She sings, regardless of her rest,
But in this lonesome nook the Bird

Did never build her nest.

No Beast, no Bird hath here his home;

The Bees, borne on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other dells,
Nor ever linger there.

The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

A Spirit of noon-day is he,

He seems a Form of flesh and blood;

Nor piping Shepherd shall he be,

Nor Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill;

He is the darling and the joy ;

And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,

They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest

And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.







On being reminded, that she was a Month old, on that Day.

HAST thou then survived,

Mild offspring of infirm humanity,

Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star,
The second glory of the heavens? Thou hast ;
Already hast survived that great decay ;

That transformation through the wide earth felt,
And by all nations. In that Being's sight
From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
A thousand years are but as yesterday;

And one day's narrow circuit is to him
Not less capacious than a thousand years.

But what is time? What outward glory? neither A measure is of Thee whose claims extend

Through "heaven's eternal year." Yet hail to


Frail, feeble Monthling! by that name, methinks,

Thy scanty hreathing-time is portioned out

Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,

Or to the churlish elements exposed

On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night,
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned,
Would, with imperious admonition, then
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee. Mother's


Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts,
Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed,
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds
Where Fancy hath small liberty to grace
The affections, to exalt them or refine;
And the maternal sympathy itself,

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