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A FRAGMENT.

Between two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowrets 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, 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,
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 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.

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;
They seem like songs of love,

For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.

**

POEMS

ON THE

NAMING OF PLACES.

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