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II.

In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.

No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers :-to other dells
Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

III.

A Spirit of noon-day is he ;
Yet 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.

IV.

A harp is from his shoulder slung ;
Resting the harp upon his knee;
To words of a forgotten tongue,
He suits its 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.

V.

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.

1799.

XXI.

SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,

Helmet-like themselves will fasten

On the heads of towering hills.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter

In some nook of chosen ground:

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,

Couched upon the rocking wave.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,

Not the less she loves her haven

In the bosom of the cliff.

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,

Brooding on her eggs reposes

When chill night that care demands.

Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day, I feel the trouble

Of the Wanderer in my soul.

1800.

XXII.

STRAY PLEASURES.

-Pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.'

By their floating mill,

That lies dead and still,

Behold yon Prisoners three,

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames! The platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tethered fast

:

To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;— And many a blithe day they have past.

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