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 : A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form 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, A harp is from his shoulder slung; 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 pass, Two sods are plainly to be seen Is cover'd fresh and green. Like turf upon a new-made grave Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade. There sits he : in his face you spy 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 un dent b'revco -I |