XXI. A FRAGMENT. BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie And in this smooth and open dell A thing no storm can e'er destroy, In clouds above, the Lark is heard, 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, The Danish Boy walks here alone : A Spirit of noon-day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; 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; A harp is from his shoulder slung; Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, There sits he in his face you spy So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, Like a dead Boy he is serene. * XXII. ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 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 one day's narrow circuit is to him Through "heaven's eternal year."— Yet hail to Thee, 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 love, Mother's Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts, For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds Where Fancy hath small liberty to grace |