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One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;
A reasoning, self-sufficient thing,
An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in honiely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove ;
And
you

must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love,

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
-The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak, both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land ;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.

-Come hither in thy hour of strength ; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave.

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;

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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 Aesh 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 storın '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.

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