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 homely 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;

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 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 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.