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In the antithetical Mannera
I marvel how Nature could ever find space For the weight and the levity seen in his face: There's thought and no thought, and there's
paleness and bloom, And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and
There's weakness, and strength, both redune,
dant and vain; Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to:
disease, Would be rational peace-a Philosopher's ease..
There's indifference, alike when he fails and
succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there
needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much
of joy, And mildness, and spirit both forward and
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident
stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's
there. There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants, Heaven knows what, to be wor
thy the name.
What a picture! 'tis drawn without Nature
or Art, -Yet the Man would at once run away
And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacredi 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
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 Forin of flesh and blood;
A piping Shepherd he might be,
A Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears nor 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
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 and herds both far and near
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.
When near this blasted tree you psss,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind,
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor-sky,
But side by side the two are laid,"
As if just sever'd by the spade.
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 cové ;
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 mein;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.