A FRAGMENT. Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie A thing no storm can e'er destroy, In clouds above, the Lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his best; But in this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build his 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, 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, 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, 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. |