I Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets 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 lonely hut;
And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy. II In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest; Withinthis lonesome nook the bird Did never build hernest. No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted onthe 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 seemsa 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 notrain, 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 singsalone 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 seemlike songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.
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